It’s nine o’clock. I trudge to the kitchen and open the pantry. Aside from a few cans of soup scattered across shelves, it’s empty. The microwave hums as I flip through People. Every so often, I look up from the glossy page and glance at the front door. When the microwave calls, I set the table with one spoon, one cup, and one bowl.
I switch on the TV and sip my soup as flickering pictures illuminate the room. Every so often, I look up from the flashing screen and glance at the door. A car’s tires screech outside. I dash to the window and yank at the blinds. It’s only the neighbors. I wash the empty dish and stack it in the cupboard.
I pick up a book and open to a dog eared page. I am now in a tropical rainforest. The unbearable humidity makes sweat drip down my neck as I push through the dense foliage. Monkeys scream and birds twitter. But then I look up from the page and glance at the door. I don’t want to read anymore.
Sitting in the living room, I listen to the sounds of the house. At first, it seems silent. But if you really listen, you can hear the house come alive. The old wood floors of the prehistoric house creak and groan as if to complain of arthritis. The curtains whisper as a breeze creeps through the cracked window. And every few seconds, the leaky faucet makes a soft “ping” as it drips.
A new sound disturbs the breathing of the house: the closing of a car door. I fly to the window and peek outside. Clouds shield the stars and shelter the moon. The night is thick and I can’t see a thing. I stand before the front door for what feels like hours. Nobody.