A woman can’t sleep. She thinks of a man, a motel bed, his two-day beard rubbing her nipples hard. She opens a window. The man next door cradles his saxophone and begins a solo. At the corner the grocer locks an iron gate below the Liquor sign. Damp streets. “Mood Indigo” drifting over parked cars. The woman remembers snow, tracks they followed to the river freezing under their clothes. Thinks of wearing his sweater, him clapping his mittens together. She lights a cigarette. The smoke hangs in the air the way his breath did leaving him.