The door was left unlocked overnight. Waited for her to come home. Fell asleep in the La-Z-Boy with a rifle cross his lap. Television was on. Sound down to a murmur. Hushed tones while news headlines ran at the bottom of the screen.

In his sleep, he gasped for air, tossed and turned, and held onto his gun tightly as if he were out in the bush waiting for Pol Pot. His fingers sweat, wrists itched from a red rash. A half filled beer can was placed on the side table. Warm beer. Saved to finish later.

Around three a.m. she came through the door. Silently. He was talking in his sleep. Something about going on, moving out, finished. She quietly locked the door and took off her shoes.

She awoke in the afternoon. Cats down below fighting. Hissing at each other. The blonde haired woman opened the window and let in a cold breeze, some fresh air.

Everything seems so stagnant, she said. Nothing new. Same old story. She quietly dressed. Put on her coat and shoes. Walked over to her sleeping husband. Kissed him on the forehead and said goodbye, Don McNally.