The carpeted floor dips in the middle. Couch and coffee tables lean to the side. He loses balance when he walks across the room. One foot trips over another. The fat man lands hard and curses. His toes curl as he stands up. Knees scraped. Grease stained boxers slightly askew. Fried chicken in the refrigerator next to a six-pack of beer. He stumbles to the kitchen.

Instead of pulling out one or two pieces, the fat man takes out the whole bucket. Fried crumbs are on the bottom,  hiding under a drumstick and thigh. Breasts were attacked the night before. Its bones lie at the bottom of a trash can, along with baked bean juice and a styrofoam mustard colored cup; it’s only evidence of there ever being potato salad.

He eats alone. No wife or lover. No cat or bird. Just sounds from down the street where two trains are hooking up. He wonders where they’re going.