She rose slowly and walked to the window. Something had woken her, but the sky was pitch black, as was everything else as far as she could see.
Last summer, the annoying neon sign that the neighbor's son had hanging in his window would have been lit up, and the sound of Metallica vibrating her windows at all hours of the night would have kept her awake. But for once the homeowners' association for their small cove were in agreement and an offer had been made to buy the house so they could take their bright lights and loud music to a less discriminating neighborhood.
That summer was also when the reality of her own mortality kept her awake at night.
A flash over the water lit up the dark sky, and the resounding crack of thunder reached her even before her eyes had recovered from the bright light.
The sound of the clock on the mantel chiming half-past midnight reminded her that tomorrow had come after all.
She had gone over her paperwork with her doctor more than a dozen times, signing, initialing, and clarifying. No, she did not want to be kept alive artificially and she was not to be resuscitated under any circumstance.
Yet when that moment came, her doctor had been swayed by the protests of her family and conceded to their wishes, not hers.
Now she lived alone in a small house by the sea, living life on her terms. She stumped down the stairs in the dark, knowing each inch of the house by heart, to the kitchen where she lit the gas burner on the stove to make some tea.