Sunday afternoon. She was on the couch under the blanket. It had been three weeks. The cat had found the warm spot behind her knees and she couldn't feel it. The book was open on her knees. She did not remember opening it. Last Sunday her mother had called at three and now it was past three and there had been no call. There would be no call. She did not reach for her phone. She did not cry either; the crying came at other times, not now, now was the wider emptier thing where nothing came.
