A carpet smells of cat piss. Beer bottles overflowing in a trashcan. Death in Venice by Thomas Mann sits on a stained coffee table. A couch sinks in when he sits on it. Bathroom down the hall.

He sits drinking coffee and indulging in his morning cigarette. He watches the smoke climb to the water damaged ceiling. He hears a couple fucking down the hall.

The fat man laughs as noises get louder. Soon, they will be drowned out by morning traffic. The cabs honking, police sirens, fire trucks through Mid-town. The couple continues their loud moans.

When was the last time you had a woman? He asks El Gato. He meows and rubs against the old man’s calf. That’s what I thought, he says. You get laid every night. He laughs.

No, El Gato. You’re just as lonely as I am. He pets him. We’ll stick together you and I. Screw them, he takes another puff. Don’t need them anyway. They get into our business, he states. Yours and mine. We got a thing going, El Gato. Why ruin it?

El Gato purrs.