Dale dozed in his easy chair. Lucinda watched him breathe. His glasses sat crooked on his nose. In his sleep his slack jaw showed signs of going jowly.
She knelt and touched his wrist. Took off his glasses and set them on the coffee table.
He awoke, confused.
“Let’s go to bed,” she said.
“You smell of beer,” he said.
“I had one while you were sleeping.”
He pulled back from her. “We’re out of beer.”
“I went out for one.”
“Where? What time is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where?”
“Come to bed.”
“You go.”
Lucinda left him and shuffled down the hall and into the bedroom. She lay on the bed alone, listening to the radiators gurgle. She lay there waiting for him to come to bed. But he did not.
She did not blame him.
She wouldn’t come to bed angry either. No, that was untrue. She would. Had before, to Kirk’s bed. She’d choked down her self-worth for him. When angry with Dale, she stayed angry instead of finding every excuse to forgive as she always had for Kirk. Why did she behave in ways that undermined the person she wished to be, believed she was? It was as if there were two different versions of herself.
When Lucinda awoke at noon after a long night of hectic broken sleep, she knew before she opened her eyes that Dale was gone.