M. L. Hollowell

I have to lean close to see it, tilting my head back to peer through the lower part of my bifocals.

First person, present tense.

Well, I said I'd do whatever came up, so I'm gonna do what it says.

Prompt number one.

I turn off the kitchen light.

I move through the house, checking the door locks.

Savoring the quiet, the dark and the quiet.

For a few hours every night, the house is luxuriously dark and quiet.

I creep up the carpeted stairs, avoiding the fourth and seventh steps and their telltale creaks.

I crack the door of the girls' room.

The light from the hallway casts a rectangle on the far wall.

But both girls sleep soundly.

Veronica, the ten-year-old on her side, earbuds in, iPhone on the shelf next to her, screen lit up.

I pull shut the door and turn off the hall light.

Inside our bedroom, Marielle is asleep on the near side of the bed, mask over her eyes.

In the glow from the TV, an episode of Law & Order SVU, the sound practically nothing.

I gently pluck the remote from her grip, circle to my side of the bed, dispense with my pants.

I point the remote and kill the TV.

She rolls onto her back with a groan.

Half asleep, she groggily pushes up the mask and smiles sleepily.