The fridge is providing the soundtrack as I stare at the ceiling. Warm hum from under a cold box. Outside a streetlight lights up the trees as they prepare for winter, emptying their leaves. The wind catches the screens and pops them against the glass-pa-tup, pa-tup, on and on... into the dark.

On the nightstand, 8 chapters into a paperback-on hold. A cup of cold coffee, breakfast? lunch? A napkin with remnants of an orange. Dried up seeds and strings curled up into knots. Remnants. Things left behind, evidence that there was life here. Close my eyes and listen for more sounds- steps on the stairs? The reassurance of keys thrown on a counter or the clink of ice into glasses? No, there is none of that. Just the fridge. Keeping my food chilled.

Upstairs I am at room temperature.