The television spits out cheap, garbling falsehoods that bark like the stupid mutt at the corner of the rug. The incessant noise, but it’s good, because it covers up less favorable sounds and drowns out Peter’s thoughts.

He fingers the curling edge of the microwave instant meal laying on the end table, illuminated by a dingy table lamp as its pull-cord dangles like an incriminating noose. The curtains are drawn. It’s still loud and that’s good, or else the neighbors would hear what’s going on.

Peter yells at the dog and it whimpers quiet. Peter’s eyes accidentally stray to the other edge of the carpet…

He curses and looks away, dropping the ugly object in his left hand. Cold and dark is how it looks and cold and dark is how it sounds as it clatters on the linoleum.

Peter shakily steps over the form of his late wife and stumbles into the bathroom.