She stood in front of
the open refrigerator at
2 a.m., not hungry,
not looking for anything.
The cold light fell on
her face like a small
mercy.
The apartment was quiet
in that particular way
that happens after weeks
of not speaking to anyone
— not silence, but the
texture of silence, thick
and soft, like unwashed
blankets.
She reached for a glass
of water. Drank it
slowly. The refrigerator
hummed its one low note,
a sound that asked
nothing of her.
She closed the door and
stood in the dark again.
But the glass was cool
in her hand, and that
was enough. That was the
whole night.