Raindrops bounced off the window unit. Winds whirled and moaned. Trees bendt. Alley cats hid behind dumpsters.

He lay in bed, listening to opera on the radio, sung in Italian. Foreign words floating over his head. It soothed him. The soprano made him cry.

On his desk sat a bottle of Beaujolais and a dirty glass. He got up and washed it in the sink with his hands and hot water. The legs of wine before disappeared like sin after a baptism.

Fat man sat in a metal chair and poured himself a glass from the pretty bottle with flowers painted on it. A twelve dollar Beaujolais, he thought. Mmmm. Not bad.

The opera was hitting a critical point. The lover had just died in the man’s arms. He carried her through town. The fat man sensed that something tragic had taken place. A single flute told him.

A tear ran down fat man’s cheek.  He looked outside, and rain had turned to snow. The Bronx streets were white. Cars skid across lanes. Tires screeching. Another glass of wine poured.

The opera had ended. Now, it was  jazz throughout the night. He hummed along to all the songs, even the avant garde bop of Ornette Coleman. Those notes made him cry as well.

He crawled back into bed. Prayed as he lay there. Said, it’s good to be alive. It’s good to be alive.