The windows rattled in their frames once an hour in the middle of the night. Just across the street from her little apartment, the train sighed and coughed, sick and worn from the pounding rain. Its puffing and wheezing was muffled, but desperate, and it moaned as if calling for her help.

In her bed she watched the second hand as it ticked in unison to the chugging of the train, the face of the clock illuminated by slats of moonlight that seeped through the blinds. She held a pillow, but around her a man’s thick arms were wrapped. Though it was the only place she wanted to be, she found that she could never sleep while next to him. She lay awake, waiting, praying that it would last a little longer. To sleep would cheat her of the little time she had left.

The clacking of the train faded into the distance leaving a dim, empty silence. She listened to his breathing; it was thick like a machine, but strangely content. His heart thudded dully against her back as he slept on. Her eyes were beginning to droop, but she fought the sensation.

A shrill squeal of Presley’s “Heartbreak Hotel” split through the quiet air, yanking her eyelids back open. The phone vibrated against the oaken end table, shattering her remaining chance to savor the moment. This was it. Her heart thudded in her chest, and she prayed. Don’t hear it, please. She held her breath, watching him. The vibrations were almost louder than the ring tone, and the cell danced across the table. There was no way he could sleep through it.

He stirred, and a soft groan escaped his lips as his arms shattered the embrace and he stretched. Swiping blindly, he scooped the noisy contraption from the table and sighed as he opened the little beast and coughed into the receiver, “Kath?”

The bedroom could be a vast, empty field in moments like this. Her lying in bed, his form hunched at the edge of the bed like the Thinker, she felt the cold, rainy night permeate through the windows and fall over her like a blanket. There were echoes, though from what she couldn’t be sure. Time seemed to have stopped and at the same time stretched out before her into eternity, and she was cascading into the expanse of solitude that lay before her.

“I have to go.”

Her eyes closed, her brow drew together, and her lips twitched inward to frown. “Stay.”

Here would be the struggle, the tears, the pleading, and in the end she would be alone in bed, a million years stretching between that moment and the next time she would see him again.

The hands of the clock turned into a frown as she watched them, and they ticked softly as if to say, “I told you so, I told you so.” The windows began to rattle again, and in the distance came the agonized howl of an oncoming train, just loud enough to harmonize with her cries into the night.

“Where were you last night?”

If he’d gotten a dime every time he’d heard that phrase in his life, he would’ve been a wealthy man. It takes on a whole new meaning in for a man in his late forties. In his youth it was expected; an unruly boy with overcautious parents was bound to break the rules sooner rather than later. After years sneaking in after midnight, his parents gave in and simply played along. It became one of those things people said to fill the space between their lack of communication and their love for one another.

His father had always drank down two raw eggs down with a few ounces of Jack. The wife had never approved, and so his raw eggs were kicked down with milk; the Jack came later in the day, around noon. He wondered if there would come a day that his wife would give in and play along as well. Would she know of his despicable deeds that he felt no shame for? Would she smile, and pretend like everything was fine for the sake of their children? Would she ask him, “Where were you last night?” simply to be polite? Would she know that whatever answer he gave would be a lie: just something to say?

“Up all night at the office – big report due this weekend.”

“Friend from out of town stopped by, we got drinks.”

“Didn’t realize how late it was. Didn’t want to wake you.”

“Car broke down, stayed at a hotel.”

Excuses. Were they as transparent as he thought they were? Or was his wife simply dumber than he could’ve hoped?

No, she was a smart woman. She was just humoring him – if not now, she would have to one day. If it weren’t for duty, they might not be together at all. Would she ever ask? Would she want to know the details? Would she want to know about the angry, passionate sex? Would she want to know how glad he was not to have to look at her face in the heat of the moment? Would she want to know that she could never, ever be good enough?

He found himself chuckling as he ran cold water and held his glass underneath it. It was strangely delightful to be such a cruel man. Perhaps one day he would not humor her at all, but rather give the pitiless, blunt truth. She would creep timidly down the stairs like she had this morning, with bags under her eyes and her robe pulled tight around her shoulders for protection. She would look up at him, her eyes desperate for consolation, the need to know, “Where were you last night?”

Unabashed, he would turn to face her and smile, his eyes dark and cold, and give her the blow. “Fucking.” Beneath him she would crumble, as if stabbed, and the life would bleed out of her eyes in fast, unstoppable tears. He had that power over her. His wife needed him, and he held her without mercy in the palm of his hand. Like a king, he could do whatever he wanted. He could crush her, and it wouldn’t matter