The television was turned off. A candle burned; smelled of chocolate. Dark blood on an easy chair cushion. He sat listening to a train go by. Noises in the night. A dog howled. Opposums diging in garbage cans. Mice scurried across the kitchen floor.

The old man picked up a recorder and blew into it. A hollow sound. Haunting. Missed notes. Fingers covered holes. No song, just long stretched out sound. A cat knocked over a coffee cup.

Rain hit the tin roof of his trailer. A beat was set, and the old man smiled. Ping, ping, ping, drops fell. He blew into the recorder again. Except this time, he got out of his chair and danced a jig. The pudgy man looked in the mirror and laughed. My, how we have slipped over the years, he said, catching his breath. Oh, how we have slipped.

He went to the window and looked out at the darkness. Black. Moon covered in clouds. Why are there never stars? he asked. Why? he blew a note.

I’m tired of the dark.