The mirror in the corner showed his age. A little round in the midsection, lines on a ruddy face, gray hair disheveled.

I’m getting old, he said. My body hurts, and every day, I feel like I’m dying, the old man looked closer in the mirror. I should have taken better care of myself, he whispered. Should’ve quit smoking and drinking long ago, a pack sat on the kitchen table. Have my eyes changed? he asked. I think they’re still the same. Just more wrinkles, he laughed.

He took down a bottle of whiskey from the top of the refrigerator. Poured himself a glass and toasted, here’s to your health, he said. Let’s make it one more year.