Plates

Home.

She opens the bottle

waiting in the kitchen.

The cork pops.

It echoes off the tile.

Then nothing.

No sound from upstairs.

She pours a glass.

Her cuff loose on her hand, she pushes it to her elbow,

and carries the glass down the hall.

Sofa or lounge chair?

The chair.

Sits. Sinks in. Sips.

Swings a leg over the arm.

Then the other.

Her arm drapes, the sleeve falls down again.

Sun dapples through the plants in the windows,

then goes.

The house darkens.

She tips the glass. Nothing.

Up.

Everything is dimmer than she expected.

Who normally turns the lights on?

So few obstacles.

Wood, then tile.

Bare feet in the quiet.

She pours a second glass

and leans on the kitchen counter.

Not sitting.

Not pacing.

One hand on the edge,

the other holding the glass.

Are there still plates in the cupboard for dinner?

She drinks slowly.

She waits.

No one is coming down.