The Temperature of Night

She leans on the windowsill and breathes out. The cold wind swallows her breath, and the streetlamp light touches the half-empty coffee cup. Even groping for what made today so heavy, all that remains of the night is the fact that in the end she had been holding on to nothing. The room is cold. The chill along the windowsill touches her fingertips, and the dark stirs as if winter were just outside. The message she sent this evening still has no reply. It isn't a wound anymore, just one more temperature telling her the night is thickening. It's a relief the sound of the refrigerator fills the room. If it stopped, it would become clear that she is sitting alone in a room with no one in it, She pulls up the blanket and switches off the light. Will things be different when tomorrow comes? Beyond the wall only dark outlines remain, and she simply wraps herself in this one layer of quiet and steadies her breath. Until the night has fully settled, just for a little while.