Crumbs on his shirt. Donut particles. A ring on the table where a coffee cup sat. No coasters. An empty pizza box on the linoleum floor. Pieces of cheese stuck to the bottom. It is dark. And quiet.

Shadows are cast on the ceiling from the oven light. An unlit candle tempts him. He plays with the black wick and lights it with his cigarette. It smells of pumpkin pie. Cinnamon and nutmeg. The flame dances a bit.

There is not much left for him. The old man has thrown most of his possessions away over the years. Old pictures of a past life. Telephone numbers and addresses. Objects from trips out West. An arrowhead he found in the desert. Nothing meant anything anymore. He wanted to erase all memories. Thoughts of her. This life was coming to a close.

There’s only one way to forget, he thought. Move on, the old man whispered. He took a drink from the whiskey bottle on top of the refrigerator. Old Paddy’s. Screwed the top back on and licked his thin lips, walked down the hall with bare walls, and entered his room where there was a shotgun under the bed. Life compared to death for him seemed worse. He sat on his bed watching the television in silence. Johnny Carson was talking to Angie Dickinson. He could tell they were flirting with each other. He knew that John had a crush on her as he did with all his women guests. He laughed. If only he could be Johnny Carson, he thought. Life would be easy. The old man pulled the trigger.