The television is off. He’s curled up in a recliner with a quilt, snoring, wrestling back and forth with a dream.

Air has come on. It blows up through the vents. A cat lays under a window. Cacti are blooming. Purple and pink flowers stretch out from the prickly limbs, waiting for sunlight. The middle-aged man mumbles in his sleep. Talking about Texarkana and a Dodge driving through town with a woman he knew. Light above the stove is burned out.

Springs on the love seat poke her as she rolls over on her side. An old jacket works as a makeshift blanket. Some Half filled bottle of cheap white sits on the coffee table next to her. The young lady sits up and reaches for it. Cigarettes float in the wine. She reaches for the pack of Newports next to the bottle, grabs her Bic lighter, and coughs. He is awake now.

What time is it? She asks.

He looks at the wall and points at the clock. Can’t tell time? He asks.

She smiles and nods her head. Three-thirty, she says. I gotta get moving.

What’s the rush?

You were supposed to wake me up at midnight, she tells him. Damn. Can’t rely on men for anything. She slips into a pair of jeans and puts on her black tank-top. He’s fiddling around with the rabbit ears on top of the TV.

Aren’t you gonna offer me coffee? She asks. I take it with cream. She runs her hands through her brunette hair. Never mind, she says. I have to go.

Why?

I got kids, I told you.

How old? He scratches his belly.

Eleven and nine. Their father don’t do anything for them, including getting ready for school. Now. I gotta run.

They kiss. He opens the door for her. You got a phone number?

We’ll see each other around.

He watches her get into a brown Pinto. The engine struggles but starts. He waves as she backs out of the dirt driveway with weeds growing in it.

He shuts the door and goes back to dreaming about Texarkana, his Dodge, and some woman he knew.