A yellow porchlight shines at night time. Mosquitoes and horse flies dance around the light. A choir of crickets can be heard. The chained dog barks.

Embroidered blankets nailed over windows. He sleeps in a recliner. A velvet Elvis picture hangs in the living room. Television is down low. Rebel Without A Cause is playing on the late late show. He snores as Plato spins philosophical  tales of not being loved.

She comes in from working second shift. The girlfriend carries a grocery bag containing a six-pack of beer, white bread, and pickle loaf. Placing the bag on the counter, she grabs his Carhartt from the couch and carefully covers his body. She removes his work boots. Holes in the toes.

There was a fight earlier before he went to work. Another fight about being behind on bills, car insurance not being paid, and  threats of electricity being shut off. No savings. No emergency funds. Checks cashed at the currency exchange in town. Money in a shoebox.

Hey, he says.

Hi.

What time is it? He asks.

Quarter till two.

Home kind of late, he says.

Went to the grocery store. Had a couple of beers with the girls, she admits.

What did you talk about? He tosses the jacket over on the couch.

Things. Just different things.

Men?

We always talk about men, she says.

What about them? He kicks the footrest under the chair. There’s a rip in it. Goes with springs coming through the couch cushions.

I don’t know. She stands in the hallway. I’m going to take a shower, she tells him. Goodnight.

He nods, goes into the kitchen, and grabs an Old Style. There’s still condensation on the cans. He pulls the tab and downs half of it in one gulp while Jimmy on the screen cries out, I got the bullets. I got the bullets.