Just after one a.m. sounds begin in the hall. Two voices so familiar they could originate in my own chest. The rubbing swing of the door over carpet, and the swoosh of two sets of slippered feet. My curtains are partly open, and street-lights are reflected in our first snow. A column of light falls over my bed, illuminating me, Triumph’s front fender, and a thumbtacked Escher print of flying fish in formation, like torpedoes.
The people switch lights on as they move through the house. These new lights seep under my door. The other lights cause my window to darken and my column of light to fade.
In the kitchen, the woman talks more than the man. She speaks mostly in whispers. The man isn’t a good whisperer. When he thinks he’s whispering, he’s just talking but adding breath sounds to it.
The refrigerator door opens and closes. A pan rattles on the stove. Liquid is poured. The fridge door opens and closes again. The burner clicks several times as it heats up. One person stirs the pot while the other pads across the kitchen floor. A cabinet door opens. Dishes click. Liquid is poured from the pot. The kitchen light goes out. Other lights go out. My window gets brighter. My column gets bigger. They stop just outside my door.
“Billy’s asleep,” Mom whispers.
“Good,” says Dad. “Billy’s asleep.”