She came home and did
not reach for the
switch. The dark was
already there, patient
and familiar, and for
once she let it stay.
The bed was made. The
curtains moved a little,
as if the room itself
were breathing. She sat
on the edge of the
mattress and listened to
the refrigerator humming
three rooms away, to the
city carrying on without
her.
There was no reason to
feel so hollow. Nothing
had happened. That was
the part that tired her
out — the nothing, the
ordinary Tuesday evening
that somehow still ached.
She lay down without
undressing. Outside,
someone laughed. Inside,
she closed her eyes and
pretended the emptiness
was just tiredness, and
that tiredness was
something sleep could
fix.