Evening Return

Trekking back inside before full dark felt like the sensible move. I slipped past the porch door, crossed the silent front hallway, and climbed the familiar wooden leg of the living room coffee table. Resting flat beside a ceramic coaster was a small cardboard matchbook, completely devoid of matches. Using one gloved hand, I pried open the cardboard flap and wedged it backward, creating a steady miniature tent on the polished grain. I settled against its firm paper crease, letting my boots rest on the tabletop. From this height, watching the room dim under the hall's distant glow is completely effortless.