Windows were open. Cold air came into the rented room. A mug of coffee on his desk; an electric typewriter, stacks of blank paper, a picture of a woman in a gold frame bought at a dime store.

He looked at the photograph every day before sitting down to write. Occasionally, the old man would kiss it and place his wrinkled fingers on her blonde feathered hair. She looked like one of Charlie’s Angels; the blonde one who married The Six Million Dollar Man. A bird sat on the window frame.

The old man started to write a sentence but kept staring at his muse. He picked up the picture and held it close to his heart.

I miss you, he said. More than anything, I miss you. The frame was placed next to the typewriter.  He took out a tissue and wiped his eyes. Just ’cause we never met don’t mean I don’t love you.