Windows open. Drops of rain fall onto the card table. A breeze blows on his face as he looks out at streetlights glowing, neon signs flashing, red lights turning green. He pours himself a drink.

Scotch, he says. The killer of all poisons in your soul. He turns the rocks glass in his hand and feels the chill of a melting ice cube. He sips. Smiles. And remains looking out the window. It’s raining harder now. The breeze has picked up. A candle is knocked over. He cracks the window.

Mozart is playing on WFMT. Despite thunder and rain, the music comes in clear. The Magic Flute brings back memories. He would listen to this opera back when he was a child on an old turntable his parents got as a wedding gift from Service Merchandise. He remembers the pops and scratches on the album. He listens now and smiles as he cries. Bellowing like a baby. The beauty of music. The wonder of life, he says softly, closing his eyes and moving his arms to the piece. The beauty of music. The wonder of life.

The storm has lifted. Red and orange leaves cover the sidewalks. Couples walk home, and cabs pick up people who have been heartbroken that evening in Chicago by lovers returning gifts and tossing rings aside. Car doors are slammed. Sirens in the distance. The silence of an ambulance that got there too late. The Magic Flute plays on.

He crawls under blankets  and rests his head on a small pillow. A pen and paper on the nightstand waiting for him. He turns on his side and writes. The beauty of music. The wonder of life.

Goodnight.