He sits on the edge of his bed naked, belly over lapping, chest drooping, hair disheveled. She lies on the other side, a shiny slip covers her body, blankets have been kicked off, her pillow is wet from drool. He touches her hip, and she rolls over. Mumbling incoherently, talking about a dog she had in her childhood. A streetlight shines through the window.

Trashcans have been knocked over by some rabid coyote in search of food. The animal finds banana peels, orange rinds, half eaten McDonald’s, tin cans, and cigarette butts. A butter wrapper sticks to the side of the can. Damn it, he says. Coyotes. Dawn is about to break.

The husband places a robe over his arm and heads to the bathroom down the hall. He pisses in the toilet. Balls hang in the water. After two attempts, it flushes. All my cares gone, he laughs. Done away with. Life goes on.

While brushing his teeth, she joins him. She sits on the toilet while he brushes side to side.

What time is it? She asks.

Sun’s coming up, he tells her.

I asked what time it was. She wipes herself. I can see the sun is rising. I see that. I want to know what time it is.

It’s close to five-thirty, he says.

Did you hear them howling last night? She flushes the toilet. It runs. She shakes the handle.

I heard them. Saw the damage he did. Damn coyote, he says, looking in the mirror.  I’m getting older.

We all are. Why don’t you kill him? She asks. Stay out there overnight and shoot it, she says. That’s what a man would do.

Fine. He says. Alright. I’ll camp out tonight and wait for him. I’ll shoot it. Like a man would. He laughs.

I don’t know. Poison it, she says. Just get rid of him. He’s a nuisance.

Great. I’ll go on a shooting spree. Killing all coyotes.

Might as well get the groundhogs, too, she smiles. Kill them all, she says. Exterminate them.

He walks down the hall to the living room. Opens the blinds and looks at the scattered trash. Damn coyote.