A yellow light bulb flickers. Torn lampshade. Drawings of naked women tacked to walls. A pot of coffee on a hot plate.

Snow will arrive tomorrow. The cold is settling in today. Sweat on windows. He draws stick figures holding hands with his finger. Round heads with big smiles.

Sitting on a folding chair, feet upon the window ledge, he lights a cigarette and looks around his rented room. A twin bed with no blankets nor pillows. Mini-fridge stocked with Folgers and Baileys. Ramen noodles in cabinets. Old spice packets. A Guinness by his side on a milk crate. Tropic of Cancer with chapters marked on the nightstand.

There is dirt on the floor from his boots. Soon, he’ll sweep; always keeping a tidy ship; something he learned from her.

He lights a cigarette and places ashes in a Budweiser tall boy. Sucks in the smoke and exhales. Man, it’s been a good life, he says. I’m the luckiest man in the world.

Goodnight, nurse.