A couch with thick pillows on it. Blankets unfolded. TV remotes between the cushions. He lays there thinking of how to tell her. Mention that he is  no longer in love. Bring up that he is leaving.

A bed upstairs where she lies with dogs. Hand sewn sheets they bought from the Amish. Wood framed chest of drawers hiding secrets; her side and his. She takes a bottle of vodka out from under the bed. She drinks it down and closes her eyes, hoping a mixture of booze and muscle relaxers will do the trick this time.

The television is turned on. Sound is down low. Almost inaudible. He flips through channels. Black and white movies on a couple of stations. Here’s looking at you, kid. 

He can’t get over Bergman’s beauty. The coolness of Bogart. Play it again, Sam. This husband begins to laugh. If only I was that cool, he mumbles.

She is silent. Eyes closed. This wife is ready to meet her maker. The dogs whine. A blanket is pulled up over her face.

It is five o’clock in the morning.  They are both asleep. He dreams. Of all the gin joints in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.