Stomach growls. Foot twitches. He feels his unshaven face. Hands run through thick greasy hair. The couch sinks.

Fireworks boom all night long. Loud. Like bombs going off in Tehran. But, there is no death. No destruction.

He looks out the window into the street. The loudness has stopped. Blue light shines down. An alley cat chases a rat. Trashcans wait curbside for morning’s pickup. The fat man turns away and mumbles to himself. Four in the morning, he says. Four in the morning.

A kettle of water is placed on the stove. The flame is on high. He waits for the whistle. Two spoons of Sanka are dumped in a cup that reads Greatest Husband. He pours the hot water into the mug and stirs. Adds sugar. Some expired cream.

Sitting alone at the kitchen table, he drinks in silence. There are no fireworks.