The whiskey finished burning its way down the old man’s raw throat and splashed hard in the pit of his empty stomach. The merest tingling sensation spread outward, lending him only the faintest illusion of warmth. In his clouded brain, he feared it wasn’t real. In his apathetic heart, he knew it wouldn’t last.
Recent events bleached lackluster by the alcohol flickered unevenly through his brain, bringing a brief smile to his blistered lips. The warmth and comfort of the mall before the rent-a-cops had chased him from its sanctuary. A fresh pint of whiskey. A half pack of cigarettes carelessly lost by someone who could afford more and serendipitously found by him. But most especially, he recalled watching the televisions through the window of the video store just like he did every night. Yes, most especially that.
He never missed the evening news, and he always made sure to watch Channel Four. The others were okay, but Channel Four was his favorite, all because of Tracy. Tracy Watson, the cute, brunette weather girl with the red, pouting lips and bright blue eyes. Now, even in the frigid night, he felt a rush of warmth as he fantasized about the way she enhanced the burgundy sweater she had been wearing when she gave her forecast. The pearl necklace around her delicate neck. The way she brushed the hair from her face with manicured fingernails just before smiling at him and motioning to the chroma-keyed radar map.
He knew she was smiling at him. He knew she was talking directly to him. He knew because she always talked specifically to him, warning of heat waves and cold snaps. Tracy cared about the old man, of this he was sure-and last night was no exception. With loving concern, she had instructed him to find someplace indoors to sleep because it was going to get colder, and it was going to snow very soon. She was worried about him, and it made the old man feel wanted.