like.
Maybe it felt like sitting in a warm living room beside an old woman insulting your haircut while pretending not to notice you finally looked less lonely.
Then one morning, I found her dead.
She didn’t answer the door.
I used the spare key.
The television still played quietly in the background.
A cup of tea sat cold beside her chair.
And Mrs. Rhode sat perfectly still.
I knew immediately.
Still, I crossed the room and whispered her name anyway.
Then I dropped beside her chair and cried harder
