It is quiet. Only the hum of an air-conditioner can be heard. The blinds are closed. He has not let in sunlight for years. The old man only goes out when it’s cloudy or dark. A porchlight glows.

He sips on tea in the kitchen. A candle burns. Cigarettes are hand rolled; a trick he learned long ago. He packs them tight with cheap tobacco. He takes count.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. He says to the cat. That should keep us for a while. The old man reaches down and pets El Gato. He purrs and rubs against the old man’s leg. A cigarette is lit.

Pictures adorn the walls. A woman with black hair rolling in the hay hangs in the hall. He kisses it each time he passes by. The old man flirts with the photo, placing his cheek against hers. He runs his wrinkled hand over her hair, stands back, and admires.

Jane, he says. One day I’ll marry you. He laughs and coughs. Yes, I will. We’ll walk down the red carpet together. Hand in hand.

I love you.