The air-conditioner shakes and rattles. Water dripping. Carpet soaked. It hums loudly, making it impossible to sleep. He lies in a pool of sweat. Scratching mosquito bites. Blood on the sheets. Music comes from next door.

Voices carry over blues. Muddy Waters is being drowned out by a couple making love. A bed post shakes. Ain’t that a man.

He gets up and makes coffee. It’s three in the morning. Street sweepers are out adding to the noise. Sirens passing by. Lights come on in the donut shop. A man stands on the corner in a wool coat and hat. Talking to himself. The kettle whistles.

Sanka is spooned into a cup. He adds half and half from a refrigerator that sputters and coughs. Climax has been reached. The two lovers yell out in both pain and joy. The music is turned off.

Want a toke? He asks her.

Hell yeah, she says. They both laugh. You always finish before me.

I thought you were with me. He tells her. Sounded like you were.

That? That’s just for effect, honey. She smiles. Just to please you. Make you feel like a man.

You shouldn’t have told me that, he yells. Don’t do me any favors. I can hold my own, you know.

Used to could. She says. Wanna go again? She lies back down. The mattress creaks.

No, he says. You get one shot. That’s it. He starts to dress.

Where are you going? She asks.

Gotta work, he says.

Will I see you again? She lies on her side.

Maybe. He kisses her forehead and leaves, shutting the door behind him.

The loner sits drinking his instant coffee. He hears him walking down the stairs and smiles.

Ain’t that a man.