Drawn Curtains: Soft Hours Full - by Diana Piner

The postman had already looked. Elena stood in the hallway with the robe still open and the certified letter creased in her hand, Buddy’s weight warm against her calf, and did not step back to close the door. She had drawn the curtains that morning the way she always did now, locked the deadbolt, and let the house settle into the thin light that came under the gap. Buddy followed her into the bedroom. She no longer rinsed her mouth first. The sheets stayed on the bed longer, marked in the same place. When she guided him in, the stretch was familiar, the knot locking without her trying to shift, the heat filling her while she kept one hand on the soft roll of her stomach and told herself she was only keeping him comfortable. The explanations had thinned. He was an animal. She was the one who kept the house clean. The part of her that wanted the sustained fullness and the quiet afterward when his head rested on her chest stayed unnamed.