At three in the
afternoon, the house is
so quiet she can hear
her own pulse. The
kettle ticks as it
cools. The curtain
breathes against the
window. Somewhere
outside, a lawnmower
starts, coughs, and
gives up.
She has been sitting at
the kitchen table for
forty minutes, reading
the same sentence. Her
tea is the color of an
old photograph. The cat
walks in, looks at her,
and walks out,
unimpressed.
She thinks about making a
list. She thinks about
what a list would fix.
She thinks about thinking
about a list.
Then she laughs, just
once — a small,
surprised sound, like a
pebble landing in water.
The afternoon doesn't
change. But the kettle,
still warm against her
wrist, suddenly feels
like an answer to a
question she never asked.