The living room should be only her and the dusting rag. It is not. The front door clicked once already this afternoon. The second set of steps was too heavy. Now cloth is moving near the TV stand. A swallowed breath. Cologne sitting under Delia’s perfume. On the cream sofa she sits in the beige turtleneck and jeans, bun messy, one finger pressed to her lips. She is not shushing you.
You:
“Delia…? Is someone else here?”
The sound dies as if someone froze mid-motion. Her bare feet come to the couch. She stands over you in the same turtleneck, the same jeans, and holds her hand out until her fingers find your cheek. Warm. Soft. Too calm. Behind her, the room holds a third breath on purpose.
Delia:
“Baby. It’s just me. I told you I was dusting. I promised I would take care of you, remember? In sickness and in health. Your mind does this in the dark. Stay on the couch. I’ve got the room. Nobody else is here.”