Cold brick walls. Carpeted floor. A couch with holes in it. Coffee pot on a hot plate.

He sits on the edge of a bed that has no sheets. An ashtray is next to him on a small table along with pictures of women he’s known. One blonde. A redhead. A black woman in Chicago. He looks at the photos and grabs his pack of cigarettes, lights one, and blows out smoke. The ceiling has a crack in it.

There is no such thing as till death do we part. Even when couples stay together, they parted years ago, he thinks. They forgot about each other years ago. After the kids, the vacations, and retirement, there is nothing left. Parting is such sweet sorrow. He laughs.

The window is open, letting in a cool breeze. He puts on his robe and stares out at Main Street. Couples walking hand in hand. Moms pushing strollers. Steaks in the butcher’s window. A neon light blinks. The Irish tavern is open.

Time for a drink, he says. An Irish coffee. That should do the trick. Cure the loneliness. People, he says. I hate them, but I love them.

Before he leaves, he kisses two fingers and touches each woman’s lips. Goodbye, my fair ladies. Goodbye.