In the morning, she makes him sandwiches of sliced ham left over from the night before.
He watches her from the doorway of the kitchen, scratches the stubble on his chin.
“Did you sleep well?” she asks.
He grunts and turns to get dressed.
She watches his car back out of the driveway. He does not return her wave.
In the afternoon, she prepares lasagna and stuffed green bell peppers.
She eats alone.
By the time he comes home, streetlights glare down along the street. He smells like motor oil and beer.
He spots a plate on the kitchen table. “Is that for me?”
She nods.
He turns to the living room. “Game’s on.”
She sits across from him, watches him in the flickering light of the television.
In the evening, she lies beside him, but she faces the wall. She clenches the sheets.
He puts his hand on her hip for a thoughtful moment, then turns away heavily. Within a few minutes he is snoring.
She stares at the darkness for a long time. She can hear laughter in a nearby apartment and sirens in the distance.
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