When Mad Men was over, I sat staring at the television, my brow furrowed. A curve to my lips suggested something between amusement and confusion. The cigarette in the ashtray had burned down to the filter, unsmoked, but the glass tumbler next to it held only the stubs of ice cubes and a medicinal whiff of vodka. The silence stretched until it became a presence, a spectral shape in the room, invisible but gravid with impenetrable meaning. Outside my window, a doctor glided over the night-dim street on a skateboard. He was on his way to save a life. Without a word, I walked through a doorway, leaving the living room in darkness. The sound the door made as it shut behind me echoed with profound finality.