She stands in front of the window to watch the car recede into the line of trees beyond the intersection.

The streetlights come on, keeping the post-sunset dark at bay.

The room is warm, but she rubs her arms to ward off the chill.

Their day had passed in mutually complacent silence. And with the sinking star came their only words: It's over, isn't it?

When the night overtakes the gentle glow of the streetlights, she turns away from the window. She walks into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator.

Is it time for dinner?

What can she cook for just one person?