“I have chicken to thaw for supper.”

She walked out into the hall and left her neatly folded paper napkin on the corner of the blotter.

I sat by myself in the quiet home office.

The little cooling fan inside the laptop whirred down into total silence.

At noon I drove six miles south on Harlem Avenue to the bank branch beside the grocery store.

The lobby smelled like floor wax and damp wool coats.

Fiona, the teller with the silver wire-rimmed glasses, looked up from her terminal as I walked up to the high marble counter.