Two Degrees

The note said COLD with two lines under it,

like emphasis could close the argument.

I read it at 2am in the hallway,

the dial glowing, one corner of the note bent

away from the wall, already half-convinced

to fall. I moved the dial down two degrees.

The house clicked once. The furnace cut.

I stood in the dark, not quite at ease

but something close — that specific small

satisfaction of a right move made alone,

in socks, at 2am, in someone else's war

I didn't start. I went back to my room.

Lay there listening for the furnace.

The note's still there, one corner lifting.

Neither of us has said a word about it.

I keep waiting for something to start shifting.