The old man stared torpidly into the distance, his head held at an odd angle. Perhaps not really held so much as left there to hang. He didn’t appear to have the strength to hold it up. His body and face were sunken; the emaciation of the old, and his head could hold on to only a few stray hairs, whispy like cirrus clouds. Dolefully he stared, unmoved from where he had been abandoned by the nurse in his wheelchair.

Baby, they’re crooning. They’re crooning to me over the AM radio with its static coming in like waves in this hot, humid air. I’m leaning in my window, just taking it in as the heat takes the life outta me. I’m sweating but I’m cool, cuz I got crooners, singing it like sugar.