Where are you going? he asked.

Nowhere in particular. Maybe downtown for a few things, she said.

You’re always leaving at this time. Monday through Friday. Don’t come home till dark. 

It’s always something.  Milk. Sugar. Your six-pack of Miller. We’re always out of something. 

Can I go with you?

I’ll be right back.

You always say that. Then, hours later, you walk through the door. Smiling. Like you met your lover. 

I’m just happy to see you. 

Right. 

He fell asleep in the recliner. The television was on. Tom Snyder talking about Charles Manson. Asking the prosecutor questions about Mason’s state of mind. Knowing he’d never be free. Talked about Squeaky and the rest of the California crew, Sharon Tate, and the grizzly murder scene. It was two in the morning.

She snuck in through the backdoor and went straight to the laundry room where she took her clothes off that smelled of cigarettes and air freshener. Walked through the house naked. Saw Snyder on the TV.

She felt guilty.