The carpet had a pattern
she used to trace during
phone calls. Tonight she
was not on a call. She
simply lay on her
stomach, cheek against
the fibers, breathing the
faint smell of laundry
detergent her mother used
to use, and noticed how
her body had stopped
asking her to move. Not
tired, not awake, not
sad, not relieved. Just
there, the way a window
is there when nobody
opens it for hours. She
thought about getting up.
She did not. She thought
about why she should.
She did not. After a
while, the house settled
into a quiet so complete
that even her breathing
sounded like something
borrowed from someone
else's room. She closed
her eyes and let the
floor hold her. It had
done this before.