The evening wasn’t late enough for Tom; the otherwise empty house wasn’t moved by the rock and roll on the radio. Even the cats were asleep in the back. No romance here. Too simple, too simple were Tom’s environs. He wanted a life of interest and here was only a kitchen table with a dinner of cold cereal; here, a dusty couch in the throws of heavy pillows—no excitement, no passion. The bedrooms were dark; the night was cold; the dishes were dirty in the sink; the refrigerator retarded mold and rot but it wasn’t enough. It was too early to sleep and too late to do anything about it.
4 November 1983, Ramona Street, Palo Alto