She doesn't answer. but she gets up and walks to the kitchen, walks down the hallway naked, the light catching on the drooping folds of her waist and hips. a car rushes past. the driver and the passenger didn't even notice the house, let alone her fuzzy blonde hair, thinning now at the temples, lying on her shoulders.

A match flares. A ring of blue flame under the kettle. She's making tea. You may as well not be there. She isn't ready to deal with the problem you represent right now. The dog lies in the corner of the kitchen on the dirty olive linoleum, front paws crossed, muzzle on paws, but awake, alert, watching her. His back legs twitch and shift. He's ready.