The apartment is quiet in
the way it always is
after ten. She stands at
the sink, rinsing a
single plate, and notices
she hasn't turned on the
main light. Just the one
above the stove. It's
not sadness, exactly.
More like someone turned
the volume down on
everything, including
her. The water runs warm
over her hands and she
lets it. Tomorrow will
ask things of her. But
tonight, standing in this
small pool of yellow
light, she exists —
quietly, barely, and
that's still something.