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The dogs are sleeping in a row, legs extended just so.

Outside the open windows, a woman yells at a child.

There are people on their way to places, to dinners, to houses and apartments and destinies.

We have our lamps turned on.

I need to pick up the newspaper I left on the ground, which is folded back upon itself. I need to finish the laundry, waiting in the dryer to be carried to dresser drawers. I need to sit at my desk, revisit the story I feel good enough about that I am questioning my instincts.

But I can hear the hum of the refrigerator.

The sound of my love shifting in his wooden desk chair.

The roll of tires coming closer before fading away.

I stay here a minute more. It’s Tuesday, and I am in no hurry to be anywhere else.