The cigar gone, burned down beyond rekindling—the stump splayed in the ashtray—I close the books, and get to my feet. The suburbs, the city itself seem hushed . . . standing alone at the desk, I enjoy for a moment possession of myself, and of the attic, the form and structure of the house, and beyond, the city, the plains.
My joints are stiff, and I recall the bottle of ale, drunk earlier in the evening, downstairs in the old kitchen, when I was in a nineteenth-century mood—a little painful now . . .
The creak of the planks seems louder, as I move toward the stairs. Descending the dark stairwell, I tread softly.
The house is quiet, the lights out. Pausing a moment in the hallway, I can hear Linda’s breathing. Then I pass down the second flight, and out the front door . . .
The air is chilled, but the wind is quiet . . . the blackberry winter, the catbird storm, subsiding as we push past midnight, into the early hours . . .
Returning to the kitchen, I think of eating—cold meatloaf, a piece of rye bread, another bottle of ale. There is an urge to turn on the television, hunt for some late show, a bit of fiction that will haul me into the screen, the eye of the thing. Hesitating between the two—refrigerator and TV—I am drawn both ways. Then I pass beyond them, move quietly to the stairs and climb again, both flights, moving swiftly through the dark, through the familiarity of many years in the old house. I climb once more to the attic.