Evening

He sat at the kitchen table, near a vase of wilted flowers, waiting for the light to return to the window.
Snow fell outside, fine flakes pushing against the  pane.
He had a certain feeling, brought on by the yellowed petals, floating at eye level,
that if he waited long enough, something would change, his phone would beep or ring.

His feet were warm.
He wore thick green socks all through the dead of winter.
The space between the flakes of snow seemed infinite.
If the light came, it would be green.

She wore slippers to bed
and watched television in the dark.
He thought of her small brown fingers, the chipped red polish near her cuticles.
Thinking of her never passed the time as quickly as he'd have liked.
He wrote her a letter and edited it immediately, until it had only three words, all useless.
The light would come soon to the window, pawing at it softly, of that he was certain.