Fans turning overhead. A window unit blows cold air. Lights are off.

He sits on the couch, contemplating his next move. Whether asleep or awake, minds shift in the middle of the night.

She’s in bed with that cat named Ted. She dreams of when she was young; nights out drinking, old friends, curfew, and boys up in her room. The cat purrs.

Quiet in the house. Only raindrops hitting a metal roof. His stomach growls. A loud truck goes down the street. No muffler, he whispers.

There was a time when they slept together; he laid on his side, and she on her stomach. No noises back then. Just two people in a peaceful slumber. Lights are on across the street.

He talks to himself. Asking questions and answering. Waiting for morning to break. Wanting her to wake up. That first cup of coffee and cigarette. He clears his throat and tastes blood.

The doctor said his final days were coming. Soon this will be over. It’s too late for precautions.

What could he have done differently, he asks himself. Nothing, he answers. Nothing. He hears her snoring down the hallway.

No regrets.