He had five roommates when he left for work in the morning and in the evening they are all gone. It’s an abandoned apartment he returns to, gutted of life and thronged with unfamiliar sounds. His footsteps echo tinnily and too loudly.

He settles in for the evening, cooks a frugal dinner, curls up in the corner of the couch with a book and a pair of headphones. Night enters in through the windows, sits on the other end of the couch, says nothing; there when he turns the page, eyes closed and face placid. It’s a beautiful face, not quite human.

He gets nervous when the record ends. They should have been back by now. Someone should have been back by now. He checks his phone, nothing, facebook, twitter, nothing. Their accounts have been deleted. His emails return, failed permanently.

Night is looking through his bookshelves.

He opens a beer, keeps reading. Night stretches out with its feet in his lap. Quiet breathing and turning pages, for hours, against a morning that never comes.