By seven, the apartment
had done everything it
knew how to do. The
radiator ticked. The lamp
gave its small circle of
light. Dinner was in the
fridge, labeled,
waiting.
She sat on the couch in
the same sweater she'd
worn three days running,
not because it was
comfortable anymore, but
because changing would
require an opinion, and
she had none left. The
day hadn't been hard in
any way she could explain
to anyone. It had just
taken everything,
quietly, the way a draft
takes warmth from a room
one degree at a time.
The sweater still smelled
faintly of Tuesday. She
pulled the sleeves over
her hands and let the
evening hold her without
asking her to be
anything. Some nights,
that was the whole plan:
stay warm, stay here,
try again tomorrow.