She set two plates out
of habit, then laughed
at herself and put one
back in the cabinet. The
sound it made was too
loud in the quiet
apartment. This was the
third evening in a row
that the silence had felt
like a verdict she was
too tired to appeal.
She sat down with her
pasta and tried not to
wonder whether he had
left because she asked
for too much, or because
she never asked for
enough. The fork scraped
the bowl. No one
answered. Outside, a
neighbor's television
murmured through the wall
— proof that other
people's lives were still
happening, still connected
to something. She ate
slowly, telling herself
that solitude was not the
same as being unlovable,
even if the room seemed
to disagree.