Paintings on the walls. Pillows with lighthouses on them. Crumbs on a hardwood floor. Lamps on dim. Blinds closed.

He wakes up at four in the morning. Turns on the coffee maker. Spies a doughnut on the counter. Chocolate icing. A long John. He opens the box and begins eating it hungrily. The doughnut is stale.

She used to sleep down the hall in their bedroom. She snored throughout the night and took all the covers. He would lay there for hours staring up at the cracked ceiling. Car lights casting shadows.

Some things you miss, he laughed. The way she spoke in a Midwestern accent. Hair a mess in the morning. Jokes told. The way she stumbled in the dark to go to the bathroom at night. A cat purring on her chest. Cigarette smoke floating in the living room. No one ever takes out the trash till it overflows. Perhaps a million things, he whispered.

Seated on the couch. The widower smiles. It was a good life after all, he says. Filled with possibilities that never came through. It was fun to dream.