His wasn’t a clean life. Pornography and crushed beer cans tossed in piles around the trailer. Pizza boxes littered the linoleum floor. Overflowing ashtrays and burn marks in easy chairs, an old color television picking up reception with rabbit ears, posters of naked women on the walls was the way he liked it. Why change now? he thought. Is Christ coming back? I don’t know, he muttered. I don’t know.

The old man would start his days with a pot of coffee and a cigarette. Lucky Strikes in a pack by his chair. He’d turn on the TV and watch Kelly Ripa in silence. He liked to look at her with her mouth shut. He thought that was the perfect woman; quiet. The old man watched she and her husband laugh at each other for an hour. He had thoughts of strangling him in a dark alley. This made him laugh.

But the reality was he’d never leave his trailer. He sat there all day drinking and dreaming of being with Kelly Ripa. He’d liked her since her soap opera days. Used to watch her on All My Children. He turned the volume down for that, too. The old man had never heard her speak. He just watched her.

And he started to cry because he knew he’d never have her. She wouldn’t have anything to do with him. He would be alone forever. Alone. Plotting. How could he win her heart? He’d shake his head. Open another Old Style. And curse at the television set. I love you, Kelly. I love you.