Silvery-yellow street light spilled across the carpet, stopping just short of the hole in the toe of Eamon’s left sock. He’d turned off the TV almost an hour before, after Letterman had ended. There wasn’t much else on after Letterman that felt like it was worth watching.
He still stared at the TV, mostly, its blank flatness a jumping-off point for late night wandering thoughts. He was tired, and he fluttered on the border between sleep and wakefullness, but never crossed over to full sleep. The rye and coke on the end table had gone warm and flat, half-drunk and ignored. He had taken to staring at his toe as it peeked from the end of his black sock, idly interested in how much light it reflected as he moved it closer and further away from streetlight’s pool.
The sound of a key in the front door pulled him into full awareness, and he rubbed his face with the palms of his hands, toe play already forgotten. When Whitney padded into the living room, she found him stretching his arms, hands folded behind his head, a yawn pulling his face into impossible shapes.
“Eamon, have you been waiting up for me the whole time?” The concern in her voice was laced with a hint of annoyance, although not directed at him specifically.
“Yeah, kind of.”