The September House

by Carissa Orlando

It’s a funny thing about being alone. You never really notice it when it’s happening. You’re aware that nobody else is there, but you’re so busy with yourself and the little things you do to occupy your time—the painting, the housework, the occasional errand.

But as with wading into cold water, you acclimate to the relative solitude until it doesn’t even bother you anymore. You don’t realize that your hands and toes have grown numb until there is a sudden burst of warmth that sends needles through your extremities.