To the Woman Across the Street Who Doesn’t Seem as Happy as She Once Was

Watch the minutes tick by until the front door closes. Turn the morning news off. Go back to bed, the sheets still warm, the old black dog settling and sighing on the rug. Tell yourself it’s just for an hour. Two. Five. Lie with the blue devils. Watch the red birds at the feeder through the window, the old black dog now kicking in her sleep. Tell yourself this stillness you hide is what keeps you going—the floors shine, the dishes are put away. Later, the roast will be resting on the stovetop, the potatoes browning in the oven. Look at all you accomplished. The red birds have long flown off. Practice smiling in the mirror. Run a comb through your hair, rub a little toothpaste along your gums. The table is set when the front door opens again. Answer of course when asked if you had a good day. Dance around the questions, steer the conversation to the old black dog’s arthritic joints. Turn the evening news on. Feel watched, like a shoplifter. To the woman across the street who doesn’t seem as happy as she once was, I bet the worst part is the longing, because someone loves you back and it’s still not enough.