Balthazar is staring out the window. It is trying hard to rain but the first drops are arguing among themselves, and not heeding their first inclination to just fall. Balthazar doesn’t mind, he likes the thought of a million rain drops arguing over this or that. He lies in bed and is now turning the bedside lamp on then off on then off on then off. On the other side of the street Mrs. Drown is watching Balthazar’s light turn off then on, off then on. She takes a long slow drag from her cigarette, watches for awhile figuring Balthazar will tire. She takes the last drink from the handle of vodka she’s already finished and reaches for the light switch next to her; off then on, off then on, off then on; so simple she thinks and now somehow she feels less alone on night that is trying hard to rain.