Everyone left this morning. The house was standing still. I made my breakfast, and checked the door. There was no one to let out.
I took a break from writing, and went to say hello. Your rug was empty, so I put on some music, and turned back to the screen.
I popped in between my errands. I was hardly in the house. I started to tell you I'd be right back, and then said it anyway.
At naptime, I walked downstairs. My heart gave a little thump. I'd left lunch on the table by accident, but the food was still right there.
We shuffled through the door, arms full of bags and coats. I warned the boys, slow down, take care. But you weren't in the way.
After dinner I cleared the table. The scraps piled up uneaten. The plates, un-licked, filled up the washer, and I threw the scraps away.
At bedtime, I turned the lights out. I checked the doors were locked. The room was empty, but I said goodnight, and left the room alone.
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