Broken glass on the floor. Busted up dishes. A twenty-four case of Old Style on the countertop. He sweeps and then drinks. Sweeps a little more and drinks a little more. He babbles about his losses.

She was a good one, he says. Would’ve hung onto her if I knew how. He takes another drink. Broom in hand, he bounces the bristles on the linoleum floor. I thought I gave her everything, he stood still. Said she wanted freedom. I gave her freedom.

The old man looks outside, and it’s  snowing. Winds shake the pines. He drinks again from his can.

We used to celebrate Christmas.  Alone. No kids. Maybe she secretly wanted kids. I don’t know. We tried in the  beginning, I guess. Just screwing all the time. And then there was nothing. He sits on the torn couch. His knees bend up to his belly.

Then there was that one I met on the road. She was really something. A real looker. Took me for all I was worth. Emotionally, that is. Thought I really loved her. Hell. Maybe I never knew what love was.

He goes back to sweep. He sings Lush Life by Billy Strayhorn.  He stops and throws the broom across the kitchen.

And then you’re alone.