My only son lives twenty minutes away. He believes I spent his inheritance on my own misery and he is correct. He runs an inn and sleeps with the guests when they cannot pay. I envy him, but I do not miss him. I have not had sex in the eight years since my wife died. I have done nothing but make candles. Sometimes while I make the candles I watch pornographic videos. I like the way the wax twirls in my hands while the women remove their thongs. Sometimes I hold handfuls of soft wax in front of me like I am cupping their tits. Other times I pour the wax onto my stomach to hear myself react. If my neighbor’s cat shows up I become embarrassed and throw hot water at her.

The wax dries the skin of my fingers, large cracks etch towards my palms. It appears I will live forever. At night I chew the dead skin off and spit it onto the floor. I no longer sweep so the mice eat the pieces during the night. They shit in my kitchen. Today’s weather has rendered me lazy. I drink heavily. I slur insults at the television, the women’s asses smudged and unnatural. I drop multiple candles in the dirt and don’t bother to pick them up. When I try I fall. There is a sharp pain somewhere.

My son visits unexpectedly. He brings guests. He carries a leather bag. He stands over me, tells me he has brought me a woman. My head lolls. She is not the woman I have been dreaming about. She laughs when she tells me her name is Oksana, but doesn’t smile when I choke on a figure skating joke. She kneels in the clay, kisses me. My mouth is too wet and slides all over hers. She knees me in the groin. I am too drunk to be scared. We wrestle for about four minutes. She spits in my face, smacks my head against a stone wall. It is almost my birthday. Three men move further into the shadows.

I say nothing. I see very little. The pain somewhere has spread to my throat. Oksana is gone. My son is gone, my wife is gone, my gold fillings are gone. They have taken my rings and the fingers that wore them. I will not make another candle. I will not squeeze soft wax like breasts. I am sure I am crying but have no idea if I am awake. I lay in the wet clay outside of my front door and wait for nothing. Nothing comes, then dusk.