She came home at the
same hour every evening
for a year, but the
apartment never quite
believed she would.
Keys on the hook. Shoes
by the door. The kettle
switched on without
asking, the way an old
dog lifts one ear at a
familiar sound. The rooms
stayed politely lit, as
if any sudden dark would
startle her into
remembering she was
alone.
She did not mind the
silence. She had learned
to wear it the way she
wore her coat indoors —
too warm, but hers.
Tonight the radiator
clicked once, twice, and
then made a sound that
almost sounded like a
name.