The Hallway Is Longer at Night

Fourteen steps. That's the hallway in the daytime, from my door to the bathroom. I've walked it for two years without thinking about it.

Tonight I counted twenty-one. I told myself I took smaller steps, that I was half-asleep, that counting in the dark is unreliable. All of that is probably true.

But I stood at the bathroom door afterward and didn't want to turn around. The hallway behind me was just the hallway. Same coats on the hook, same crack of light under my door. I could see all of it.

I counted again on the way back. Fourteen. Exactly fourteen, like nothing had happened. I got into bed and pulled the blanket up and lay very still, the way you do when you want a room to believe you're already asleep.