The mix of sounds. A train coming through town. Thunder at five o’clock in the morning. Cars driving by on Dayton Avenue. Coffee brewing. Rain pourng down.

Then there is silence. Nothingness. Everything has stopped. He lies in bed with no blankets. Only a sheet covers his naked body. A pillow with spit stains on it. It is quiet.

Lightning dashes in the sky. The fat man looks at it through his bedroom window. Skies turn from black to blue. Silver streaks. He sits up and stretches, arms to the ceiling,  legs planted on the floor. Again, he looks outside. Today was supposed to be sunny, he says. Where is the sun?

He pours a cup of coffee. Opens the refrigerator, which squeaks and hums. There is no cream, he says. Black coffee. He takes a sip and walks into the living room. He is alone.

Fat man, he says. These days are few. He takes another drink and remembers when he was not alone. When sounds were different. Things said. The unspoken word speaking loudly. The wife questioning his fidelity. A cat crying for food. Booze fueled arguments at two in the morning.

I miss those days.