AM:73

June kept the windows open the first few weeks, but got annoyed at sweeping up all of the dead houseflies, closed the windows, and switched on the air. She still kept the shutters open for a while, but started closing them at night because she couldn’t gauge the tree cover under the dining room window, and she kept feeling like the neighbors were standing in their backyard, watching.

Sometimes she forgot to open the shutters again during the day, and the lack of sunlight made her sleepy. She started opening her eyes only halfway, and then not opening them at all unless she needed them to make chicken salad or sweep the floor.

Eventually, chicken salad grew less important. The chicken straight out of the can gained its own intricacies, and adding mayonnaise and celery and bread and cheese seemed like too much. She could find the chicken in the pantry without opening her eyes, and soon enough, she learned to find the trash can to dispose of the can without peeking even once. She was a high-wire artist. Her invisible audience watched from their backyards.