Four
Susanna
I'm not sleeping. I'm lying in the dark, listening to Teller's voice drift through the window from the back porch. I can't make out the words, but I can hear the tone—gentle, patient, caring.
The way he used to talk to me.
My phone lights up with a text from Hillary.
Hillary: Lunch tomorrow? I'm worried about you.
Me: Yes. Please.
I turn onto my side, pulling the covers up to my chin. The bed feels enormous, empty even though Teller will eventually climb in beside me. We'll sleep back-to-back, careful not to touch, like roommates instead of lovers.
When did we become roommates?
I try to remember the last time we had sex. Really had sex, not the perfunctory, lights-off, get-it-over-with kind. It's been at least six weeks. Maybe longer.
I try to remember the last time he looked at me the way he used to—like I was the most fascinating person in the world, like he couldn't believe his luck that I'd chosen him.
Now he looks at me like I'm an obligation. A box to check. Wife: fed, housed, tolerated.
The back door opens and closes. Teller's footsteps on the stairs. The bathroom light flicks on, water running, the electric toothbrush buzzing.
He slides into bed beside me, and I keep my breathing steady, pretending to be asleep.
"Susanna?" he whispers.
I don't answer.
He sighs, rolling away from me. Within minutes, he's snoring softly.
I stare at the ceiling until dawn.