It was two in the afternoon and she was still in pajamas. The book was open on her knee but she hadn't turned the page in twenty minutes. She wasn't sad exactly, she just wasn't anything. The idea of showering felt theoretical. The idea of replying to any of the texts felt enormous. She got up to get water and on her way back lay on the couch instead. Outside the window a bird did bird things. She watched it without interest. Eventually the light changed and she realized it was evening and she hadn't moved and the day had happened to somebody else.

She came home at six-thirty and put her keys in the bowl and sat on the edge of the bed. She had meant to cook. She had meant to change her clothes. An hour later she was still sitting there, still in her work clothes, looking at the carpet. Somebody texted her about dinner and she saw the notification and didn't open it. The room got darker slowly. Nothing in her moved toward anything.

It was Saturday and she'd been awake since eight. She was still in bed at eleven. She'd been looking at the same patch of ceiling, not thinking about much. Her phone was face-down on the nightstand and she didn't reach for it. The idea of going to the kitchen had come and gone three times without causing her to move. The day would pass. She would also pass through it, somehow, or not.
