Frost on the Glass: Heat from the Chair - by Diana Piner

She did not step away from the chair. Mara’s palm rested on the worn leather while the fire settled and her husband’s footsteps moved through the hall. Orion’s weight had not left the cushion. The heat of his body continued through the wool of her trousers exactly where it had rested for days, dense and constant against her thigh. Frost held its patterns on the glass. The paper bats hung still above the mantel. She had walked the empty rooms, scored the black card, set the pumpkins on the step, and told herself five days of ordinary work would end when the car returned. The house had grown larger without the boots by the door. The armchair had grown smaller once the dog climbed into it and the draft from the windows no longer reached her. She had kept her hands still. She had opened them later. The sheets had gone into the basket under the stairs. The rug had stayed damp. Now the ordinary question had been answered and the coat hung on its hook.