He woke early, before the city, and sat with his coffee in the kitchen.  Soon the rumble and bustle of the streets would penetrate even here, but for now this was his time.  Today, more than usual, he thought about his lost loves while the water boiled, while he ground the beans, while he waited for the slow transformative drip through the filter cone.

At his age, of course, he had known many women.  He had even married one or two, and though they had long since left him — or he them — he loved each one still, in some small way. Or not small, for it is no insignificant thing to give a piece of oneself, unconditionally, to another.  He found, ironically, that the more of himself he gave in this way, the more alive he felt. He always parted on good terms, and even saw them occasionally for dinner, and sometimes when the winter nights were too quiet or too cold or too lonely, they would ask him to stay until morning.

He boiled more water and stretched his leg while he waited.  The pain was worse this morning, and he thought perhaps he should see a doctor after all.  Perhaps it wouldn’t be bothering him by the time he could call, and he would forget about it as he had yesterday, and the day before, and all last week.  He could tell by the light that the noise would — or should — be picking up soon, the buses and traffic, the trucks picking their way past double-parked cars.  He sipped, and then held still to listen.  The garbage collection was right on schedule, he could hear the familiar brake-squeal. He went to the other room to look out the window, knowing long before he got there what he would see: the white Sanitation truck, slowly working its way down the block, wheels muffled in the new-fallen snow.