Turning around in the thick blankets. Warm blankets, sticking like sweat. Breathing. A snore. The sound of hair and pillow against your ears. A car passing by, headlights flashing across the ceiling as it turns out onto the main road. You hear a slight scratching above, the rats or squirrels living in hordes on the floor above. But this is nothing but sound.
Sitting at the kitchen table. Peeling surface rough beneath your fingers. Light pouring in from the sky-roof, landing on the potted plants on the lower sill. They are green-someone gave them a spill of water and in a day, after months of dehydration, they came back to life. You sit still. Not even bird calls can be heard from where you sit: every window is closed and encased in cocking: cemented tightly shut. The washer and dryer are off. Every sink closed, so not a drop clinks against the metal and porcelain sinks. Branches shake outside, send the light and shadows spilling across the wooden floor. An ant scurries across the floor and over to the rug, but the silence is complete. You stay until you can’t stand the quiet anymore. Your ears are buzzing in the quiet, and thoughts just won’t bob to the surface. You run the faucet, say his name aloud, throw his favorite can of Zazz across the room.