A lamp on in the living room. Books on an end table. Electrical outlets screwed loosely to the walls. Music plays softly on the transistor radio; jazz on a local public radio station. His watch says three.

Streetlights glow through windows. A yellow hue. He stares straight ahead at the closed blinds.  Walks over to them and takes a peek outside.

There is nothing. A few cars parked on the street. Porchlights turned off. A cat scurries down the alley. A typical night in a typical town in America.

While others sleep, he stays up, thinking,wondering what will tomorrow bring. It’s always about the next day, he says. Why can’t I live in the moment?

Some couples are making love at this time. Others are arguing. Many dream of something worse or better, he thinks. Then there’s the nighthawks. Those who can’t sleep, make love, or dream. He laughs. We are our own species.

The old man gets dressed and fumbles through a pile of keys. He grabs his house key and locks the front door. It is silent outside. Absolutely quiet. He wants to sing but hums instead. 

An old song has come to him. Lush Life by Billy Strayhorn. He used to play it all the time on the tavern jukebox. Where one relaxes on the axis of the wheel of life…to get the thrill of life…of jazz and cocktails, he softly sings a few words. Laughs. Continues walking. Just walking on a summer’s night. There are birds starting to chirp. Pigeons on park benches. Bums with bottles in their hands. Asking for a buck or two. He gives one fifty cents at the door of the diner and walks inside where other nighthawks greet him. He feels at home.

The coffee is warm. Room temperature at best. Sugar barely dissolves. Cream curdles. He orders eggs and sausage with a side of toast, drowning in butter. Fran takes his order.

Two sunnys and sausage, she yells as she butters burnt wheat bread. She scrapes off the black ash as much as she can, cuts the two slices into four pieces, and serves the old man. Here you go, hon. Enjoy.

He takes a swig of coffee, and she fills the cup. The old man nods his head and smiles at her. He begins humming again.

I used to visit all the very gay places….those come what may places….He dips his toast in the yolk. The old man is pleased. Life goes on.