Head by the toilet bowl; the cool, cool toilet bowl. A small trashcan, rusted on the bottom, a quarter way filled with vomit, stands beside him. A can of Lysol in his hand.

There’s shit on the floor from not making it in time. Underwear soiled. Tee-shirt dripping with sweat. It is two o’clock in the morning. Drinks had three hours before now flushed away. He wipes his mouth with his forearm and runs his hand through greasy hair. Shakily, he stands like a newborn colt.

He stammers down the hall, back to his rented room. Wind from the fan hits his face. Windows are open. Half a warm beer in a can. He smells it and pours the Schlitz down below onto the sidewalk, past other windows, and a green neon sign that reads, Paddy’s Pub.  Damn Irish, he mumbles and turns on the music. Joe Henderson plays sax out of a tinny transistor radio. Goddammit still sounds good, he whispers.

Falling into bed, he turns over on his side and looks for a matchbook on the nightstand. He sits up with his back against the wall and lights a Viceroy.  Smoke hovers above him.

Where are you, honey? I miss you.