It’s cold in the hall. I shine the flashlight on the rug, and on my gun cabinet, and for a moment I think I’ll go and make coffee in the kitchen, and sit there listening to it brew, and drink a cup of it and smoke a few cigarettes. But it seems an odd time of the night to do a thing like that. The thought passes, and I go down the stairs.

I open the door to the kitchen. Of course there’s nothing in there. I shut the door hard so she can hear it. I cross the dining room, lighting my way, looking at her china in the cabinet, at the white tablecloth on the table and the dust on it, and I open the door to the living room. There’s nothing in there but furniture, the fireplace, some candy in a dish. I slam the door so she can hear that, too. I’m thinking of all the dreams I could be having right now, uninterrupted. It’s too late for Carson, too late for Letterman, too late for Arsenio. They’ve all gone to bed by now.

I stand downstairs and listen to my house. I cut the light off to hear better. The silence has a noise of its own that it makes. I move to the window and push the curtains aside, but nobody’s out there on the streets. It’s cold out there. I’m glad I’m in here, and not out there. Still.

I sit in a chair for a little while, tapping the flashlight gently on my knee. I find my cigarettes in the pocket of my robe, and I smoke one. I don’t want it, it’s just a habit. It kills three or four minutes. And after that, it’s been long enough. I find an ashtray with my flashlight, and put out the cigarette. I’m still thinking about that coffee. I even look in the direction of the kitchen. But finally I go ahead and climb the stairs.

I put my hand over the bulb of the flashlight when I get near the bed. I move in my own little circle of light with quiet feet. I keep my hand over it when I move it near her face. I don’t want to wake her up if she’s asleep. My hand looks red in the light, and my skin looks thin. I don’t know how we got so old.

Her eyes are closed. She has her hands folded together, palms flat, like a child with her head resting on them. I don’t know what to do with her any more. Maybe tomorrow night she won’t hear the things downstairs. Maybe tomorrow night they’ll be up in the attic. It’s hard to tell.