I stop on my way through the kitchen. Something about the floor is appealing. A week ago, a dozen people stood there chattering and drinking. The ones who didn't care for dancing in the basement. Today, the floor is empty. It's well-lit. It's hard. It's a bit *****, but not repulsive. I stand still for half a minute, looking down at it. I want to lay down there. I don't know how I would situate myself, but I want to lay with my chest on the floor. It makes me sad to think of myself there, but it seems just right at the same time. It looks like home. I consider how no one would know. I appear in people's lives every day, and then I disappear into my car and drive off to some abyss from which I'll reappear tomorrow. I wonder how many men have moments like these. I think about family, and how at funerals we talk about what he was like, how kind-hearted, how funny, and how everyone will miss him. But we don't talk about this moment. We don't even know this moment occurred, because it took place in the abyss.