An Indian blanket over a couch. A metal folding table with a typewriter on it. Overflowing ashtrays. Half empty beer cans. Stacks of blank paper. Notes on a legal pad.

He sits on the edge of his twin bed and looks at the clock. The sun has yet to rise. He reaches for a cigarette, mumbles, and lights it. No sense in trying to quit now, he says. He blows smoke through his nose.

The typewriter sits there. Like a woman, it stares at him. She has not been touched in a week. The old man has neglected her. Keys have been silent.

He wants to write but has nothing to say, he thinks. Just old stories of living on the streets, eating at churches, homeless shelter fights, and bags of books he’s read. A few broken relationships come to mind; the same story over and over. His mind is quiet.

The old man puts on a kettle for tea. Reaches in the small fridge for a carton of expired milk. Twists the cap and smells it. It’ll do. He puts sugar in the bottom of a cup along with a tea bag and pours in the hot water. He smokes, then drinks, he smokes, then drinks. His morning ritual has begun.

He prays for an opening line. Something to write. A sentence that demands attention. Nothing is coming. He sits on the couch and stares at the machine. Glares at it before walking over to it and saying hello. He sits in the chair and hits the typewriter with both fists the way he used to hit her years ago. Before she left him. Before he realized what damage he had done.

She walked out on him one night while he was passed out. Left a note that said, I’ve found someone else. Goodbye.

He still has that letter. Two sentences can be powerful. The old man laughed and typed out, I’ve found someone else. Goodbye.

And that began his story.