Ceiling fan rotates. Room is dark. A streetlight cast a shadow on a white wall. Porchlight glows. 

She sits on a couch. Cushions sink. Torn. Ripped. Burn marks on a wooden floor. A book in her hands.

The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoyevsky. Pages yellowed. Lines marked in orange. She’s on page 457. Places it on the coffee table. Why can’t I ever finish this book? She asks herself. Why?

In the kitchen, a tea pot whistles. A cup is poured. Earl Grey. She adds milk and honey. Rummages through cabinets and finds no food. Nothing. Sips her drink. A piece of wheat bread hiding. It expires the next day. If only there was butter, she says. Laughing, she nibbles at the piece.

Radio is turned on. Public radio station playing jazz. She is alone. No one down the hall. Not a soul in the bedroom. Just her. By herself. She sips tea again. Chews on bread. Stares off into space while lady sings the blues.

It is dawn. Her head lies on folded arms. The L screeches to a halt. Wilson, the voice says. This is Wilson

Train doors open and close. She hears the conductors voice saying Addison. Addison is next. Next stop, Addison.

She stretches, yawns, and starts her day. There is nothing new. Same old same old.