Hands over eyes. Rubbing sleep out of them. The morning stretch and cough simultaneously. He grabs a beer from the mini fridge. Pops the tab. Foam spews on his wrinkled hand. He wipes it on his mouth. 

The room smells like cigarettes and cheap gin. No matter how impoverished, a good martini is always in order.

Dial is set on WKCR. They’re playing Coltrane for the next twenty-four hours. He sits on his bed and listens to Central Park West. Thinks of the upper Westside. Women walking dogs. Horse-drawn carriages. A couple kissing on a bench. He takes another swig.

A Love Supreme is now playing. He hums along. It is still dark outside. Snow flakes fall on 24th Street. Maybe they’re blessings coming down. He opens his window and tastes the air.

Happy New Year,  he says to himself. Happy New Year.