The blinds were drawn. It was mostly dark in the house. An overhead light in the kitchen shined, casting a shadow of the ceiling fan over the table where he sat. The old man stirred his coffee and looked through the blinds at darkness outside; pitch black. He sat quietly. Humming an old Merle Haggard song. He lit a cigarette and took a sip of coffee.

You call that coffee? he said out loud. Brown water leftover from yesterday. She’s always gotta save things. Always gotta hold onto stuff. All we have are meals from the day before. Coffee that we didn’t finish, he mumbled. Hell with this, he poured the remaining liquid in the sink and began looking for coffee grounds.

He opened the cabinets above and below; no sign of it. Just cans of beans and bags of rice. Beans and rice, he said. What’re we? Mexicans? he continued looking in the cupboard. Where the hell does she put that stuff ? She’s always hiding things from me, he said. Always trying to trick me, he opened the freezer door and moved around chicken thighs, frozen ice cubes, California Medley, peas and carrots, finally in the back a can of Bustello coffee. The old man quickly opened it and smelled the black and brown grounds. He smiled.

What’re you doing? she asked, standing there in her robe.

What does it look like I’m doing? Making coffee.

Making a fool out of yourself, she said. We have to save damn you. The apocalypse is coming and we ain’t gonna have nothing.

You think it’s gonna matter? he continued making coffee. The gray haired wife hit him in the back of the head. The old man fell to the ground. She stood over him. Looked at him.

Get up, she said. He did not move. Blood ran from his front temple. I said get up, she kicked his legs, he was out cold. She took a pitcher and poured water over his lined face. There was no movement. The old lady looked outside. The sun was coming up.

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