Dexter Gordon plays on the radio at two in the morning. He sits there smoking a cigarette while she sleeps off and on. They are both naked. He scratches his back and walks over to the front window, looks down, and takes another drag while Dexter hits notes and traffic on 8th Avenue stops and starts, horns honk, and sirens scream. She sits up.

Put a towel around you, she says. I’m the only one who should see you in this state. He continues looking down at the porn houses, bars, diners, and trinket stores for Midwestern tourists. Lights shine down on the Avenue, and humanity walks by. The hookers and cops, thieves, pill pushers, junkies and the unfortunate in life. He continues standing. Naked to the world.

An overflowing ashtray sits on the nightstand next to her. She crushes out her cigarette and walks over to him. Hides her body with his, wrapping her arms around his waist, kissing the back of his neck.

Come back to bed, she tells him. I’ll make it worth your while.

He walks over to his pants, folded over a chair, pulls out a hundred dollar bill, places it in her hand, and says, I pay you to leave.

On 8th Avenue, the cars cruise by and Dexter Gordon plays on the radio.