A broad patch of grass on the far end of the lawn has yellowed. The dirt beneath it is dusty and dry. I walk out into the dark woods behind our house and lose myself in the tangles and shifting shadows. I have known these trees my whole life. I have bled, died and been reborn here in kid games with plastic guns, invisible bullets, the soft earth always there to break my fall. The leaves, my friends, they wink at me as the sunlight flickers between branches. The breeze in the treetops sounds like the ocean.
And when I get back Ed’s home from work standing with his back to me, leaning over the sink, staring into the drain. He inhales deeply and sighs out his breath.
“How you doin?” I say.
“Okay,” his voice low, “just tired, is all.”
“How was, how was work?”
“Ah same shit.”
“Same shit, different day,” I say, hoping to let in some light.
“Nope.” He empties his blue Igloo lunch cooler, starts rinsing out the thermos and Tupperware. “Same shit, same day.”