Page 10

Before

N oel is late getting home again.

I sit at the kitchen table, checking my watch as I drum my fingers against the table. It’s nearly nine o’clock, and he told me that tonight he would definitely be home by seven. Seven came and went, along with several apologetic text messages. I’m so sorry. I’ll be home earlier tomorrow night for sure. I promise.

Why am I even surprised? These days, it’s more surprising when he actually makes it home when dinner is first coming out of the oven. I’m getting sick of his apologies—sick of keeping our dinner warm in the oven until whatever time he decides to come home.

Finally, at ten minutes after nine, the lock turns in our front door. I get to my feet and remove the chicken I made from the oven. It was delicious and juicy at seven, although it has surely dried out over the last two hours. Noel will insist it’s great, though. He always does.

“I’m so sorry, Talia.” Those are his first words as he bursts into the kitchen, wearing his usual work outfit of a wrinkled dress shirt, no tie, and khaki pants. “One of the tests we were doing ran long. I wanted to leave, but I couldn’t.”

“Uh-huh.” I toss my ruined chicken on the kitchen table, even though what I really want to do is throw it at his head. “Well, I know your work is very important.”

“ You’re important,” he insists. “And we’re almost at the finish line. I swear.”

“Uh-huh.”

“After this is done,” he says, “we are going to take a vacation. Maybe the Bahamas or Hawaii. Someplace warm with beaches and no phones at all.”

His words defuse my anger a bit. That does sound like a very nice vacation. Although a vacation where we never left our room for two weeks would also be nice.

And maybe we can get pregnant on the dream vacation. I couldn’t have imagined it five or six years ago, but I’m finally ready to start a family. If Noel would only cut back his hours a little, he’d be a great dad. A baby might be the motivation he needs to spend more time with his family.

He crosses the room to where I’m standing. He gently tugs off my oven mitts and puts his arms around me. He leans in to kiss me, and I almost let him, but then at the last second, I stiffen under his embrace. I turn away so that his lips only brush the top of my forehead.

“Do you want to eat?” I say in a voice that sounds like it isn’t my own.

“Yes,” he says, “but first, let me jump in the shower. I feel like I’m covered in chemicals. It’ll be five minutes. I promise.”

“And maybe tonight,” I add, “you and I can ... you know ...”

He grimaces, which is the last reaction I would expect from a red-blooded male whose wife just told him he was going to get lucky tonight. “Talia, honey, I’m so beat. I ... I’d probably fall asleep in the middle of it. Rain check?”

I nod slowly. “Rain check.”

I stand frozen in the kitchen as I watch my husband climb the stairs to the second floor of our house. His instinct to take a shower is a good one. Noel has lost his sense of smell, but I haven’t, and I am very aware that he reeks of another woman’s perfume.