Phyllis loudly slides into bed, trying to indicate her frustrations with instruments as delicate as a pillow and sheet. Much to her annoyance, her husband, Peter, doesn’t so much as turn to welcome her under the sheets with his warm arms and stubby chin. Instead, Pete shifts not towards her but slightly up in his repose as to not break sight line for a single second with the tv. A tv Phyllis already thinks is a bit too overstimulating for bed time.

“How invalidating,” Phyllis thinks to herself as she settles into her pillow, her anger mounting to the sound of her hairs finding their way into the grooves of the pillow case. Just as the noise dies down she again stirs in bed, trying to align her spine just right to assuage the impending backache that seems to come complimentary with the dreaded 40. Her and Peter had been married twenty-four years, which, unbelievably to Phyllis, had been longer than her whole life before Peter.

Their marriage had been a cornerstone of support for two careers (him a fireman and her a CPA), 5 kids, and a pair of wayward siblings (one from each side) who seemed to rely on the couple financially every time a new job didn’t “shake out” as planned. This had long been not simply a burden for Phyllis, rather a point of pride; that together, Pete and Phyll, as their kids jokingly referred to them, were solid, reliable, strong. Built on a firm foundation.

“Fight naked, keep your bank accounts joint, and NEVER go to bed angry” Peter’s mother told them on the eve of their bridal shower. And for twenty-four years that advice had served them well.

Calmer now for remembering these guiding principles, Phyllis took a deep breath. Sure Pete was being a jerk now for not picking up on her hints but; “He can be dense at times” Phyllis reasoned.

Cutting him some slack for being so oblivious, Phyllis swallowed her pride and let out a small, quiet “Soooo” as she grabbed the remote and muted the Ravens game.

This was a play quite common in their wedding bed in fact, Peter would say something insensitive as he’s passing from one room to the next and immediately forget about it. Innocent commentary that shouldn’t be heard by a roommate, much less a spouse, was often tossed around after Peter had had a long day at the station or if the thermostat wasn’t quite holding the temperature the man of the house was accustomed to. Surely, this averting of attention would snap Pete into the present, and he would reassume the role of the available and often-doting patriarch ready to remember and then repent of the utterance that had made such an insidious impression.

Pete’s gaze shifts from the tv to Phyllis, expressionless, tired. He rolls over in bed, toward his nightstand, reaches out a hand and pulls the chain of the reading lamp he had been using.

Phyllis watches as the incandescent glow simmers from a hot white to a warm orange. Phyllis stays propped up on her elbow in disbelief staring into the back of her husbands head, waiting for him to pick up in his part of the script. She has said “Sooo” and now lies waiting for a “Honey, what’s wrong?”

Seconds pass with no answer. “Uncharacteristic would be an understatement” thinks Phyllis “this would be a betrayal. This isn’t what’s supposed to happen.”

“Goodnight, hon” dozes Peter as he nuzzles deeper into his pillow, clearly intent on going to bed.

In twenty-four years, Phyllis and Peter had seen trial after trial together through to the other side. They hadn’t led a perfect marriage, and perhaps it was this knowledge that had always motivated them to admit their faults and try to be better. Their relationship seemed to be, at least in Phyliss’ eyes, a living being. But as Peter lays dozing, Phyllis’s anger slinks in reverence to a new feeling entirely, fear. She turns in bed, lays her head on the pillow, and spends a solemn moment honoring the dead.