The motion light on the side of the house came on again. That's the third time since I lay down. It's the kind that clicks on when something moves past it — a cat, usually, or the wind doing something to the recycling.
I'm not getting up. That's the rule I made for myself an hour ago and I'm keeping it. From the bed I can see the edge of the glow through the blinds, a thin warm line that holds for its ninety seconds and then goes out. I've started counting the gaps between. They aren't even.
It's probably the cat. We don't have a cat. The neighbours have a cat. That's probably it.
The light is off now. I'm watching the line where it was, the way you watch a phone you've decided not to check. The house does its small settling noises, the ones I know, and I tell myself I know all of them.
It just came on again. I didn't hear the wind.