The Little Black Book
Exhausted and on autopilot, Gerrard trudged into his apartment, placed his keys in the porcelain holder and the black book right next to it on the console table in the entryway. Without bothering to turn on the lights, he flipped the slit on the doorknob and turned the deadbolt above it to lock the door behind him. There was barely enough ambient light filtering in through the window blinds from outside, to discern the distinction of the objects in his apartment by their silhouettes but not bright enough to ascertain their details. He went to his refrigerator, grabbed a bag of frozen peas, held it at the back of his head, and continued languidly into his bedroom, right to the foot of the bed, and paused. He seemed fixated on the artwork, mounted on the wall, above the headboard. Seemingly imbibing it in silent contemplation, like an art savant, except, his gaze held no focus and it was dark. Whatever he was looking at, whatever he was seeing was not in front of him!