The TV Was On

I called about the car. Told him the number—

what the shop said, what I didn't have—

and waited.

He didn't get angry. He didn't offer.

He went quiet in the way that isn't empty,

that's more like something settling into position.

In the background, a show.

Not the words, just the volume—

the laugh track coming through

like weather on another street,

something happening to other people

in a room I couldn't see.

His breathing was still there.

That was the whole of it.

Three days and I keep going back

to the shape of that silence—

not what came before,

not what came after,

just the pause

between when I finished talking

and when he said

well.

Not well okay. Not well I'll help you.

Just well—

a door opening onto nothing

in particular.

The show kept going.

Someone was laughing.

I don't know why I keep coming back to that.