The nights are short for her. They come in gasps, like a chipped window frame forced open. It always gets light too soon; she can see it happening at 2 am. The birds are already awake, telling each other all the little things that the people can’t hear. She can almost feel the sun leaking over the opposite hemisphere towards her. The stars yawn.
The days are long for her. She wakes late in a tangled nest of month-old sheets, her mouth sealed with dehydration and the filmy remnants of toothpaste. She spends her time between t.v. shows and snacks and ten minute trips outside with the dog. She doesn’t think about the mail or the dishes.
She ignores the fact that she isn’t trying. She denies that she is really fine with this. She waits and watches and takes a glass of water to bed at 11. She sits in the yellow, almond butter light, making the most of the quiet. The dogs don’t bark, and the neighbors don’t whine. White kittens sit in the middle of the road and preen protected by the waning moonlight. Once in awhile she will turn off all the lights. Colored spots will dance across the room as she slowly pulls back the curtain and peaks through the blinds. The moonlight reaches through the cracks and gently touches her fingers. She holds her breath and nothing happens.