The doorbell rings. I ignore it. This couch feels like a life raft; the outside world is shark-infested waters. I grab the throw rug and pull it around my shoulders, hoping that sleep comes and carries me through until evening, when I can finally change into my pajamas and slide into the comforting blackness of evening. I might have some toast and a cup of tea, and put something on the television to take the edge off the silence as I rattle about in this big old place. Sometimes, at night, I pretend that Tom is still here.
