When he’s not there the night-time rituals drag almost to day. Switch off TVs. Close down computers. Crawl under desks, cleaning garbage from carpets. Make sure the plug sockets aren’t warm.
She looks at the cooker, cold ages ago, then rests her hand on the door and over burners just to make sure.
Checking the keys, she rattles the front, back, side, checks the window-frames too; barefoot in the garage to see that it’s closed. Watches children; the day’s coming soon.
Lie down. Get up again.
When he’s home his goodnight kiss is comfort till dawn; she’s not scared anymore.