My husband cheated on me, what an asshole. Why she used a typewriter to record this daunting thought was beyond her. Perhaps it was the slow but definite click, like the ticking of the clock. A reminder that although time feels still, it moves relentlessly on. Shit, it's dark. She whipped around to face the clock that covered most of the wall. It's huge hands were pointing to something but this clock had no numbers. What a pointless luxury. She trumped to the kitchen and leaned on the counter, glancing at the microwave. It was 10:37. I'm going to die at eleven, she told herself. It came out as a feeble whisper, imploring reason. She could imagine people reading about her and rolling their eyes while muttering something about selfish white women. She could imagine her husband in bed with another woman. She quickly clamped her eyes shut to remove the image. When she opened them, she tried very hard to think about what she actually saw: a messy dining room, the antique wooden table littered with notebooks and dinner plates, a muffin that had hardly been touched, which tasted like cardboard anyways, a purple winter coat flung on a cozy chair by a small lit fire, and a very wearily looking dog, who only glanced up to check whether she was going to approach the muffin. God damn, the dog, she thought. Life is full of problems, even when only for 23 minutes. She squinted at the time. 22 more.