Grocery store, half empty, haunted, inching closer to death, smells of rot. Hanging a tuxedo in the employee area for the corpse to have something to dress himself in when metaphors fail. Walking home, chimes ring and the wind picks up and branches beat against windows and passing company becomes craven allies and fair weather friends. Midnight dalliances marking time, three to a bed but one to dance. No one ever comes when they say they will.