They had a nice house, two cars, and a dog. Money in the bank, equity in the house. Clothes to wear, trips to take. They'd gone to France last year. They were always together. Friends proclaimed them the ideal couple.
At night, she'd brush her teeth, climb into bed, and call him to the room to say "goodnight." He'd come in, say "goodnight." Their lips would meet, but hers were stiff and narrow. That was how she’d been kissing him the last two years. Kisses hadn't always been like that. Her mouth had once softened and parted.
He didn't say a thing. He wondered what had happened, but nothing stood out. She still always ran to him and hugged him tightly when he came home from work. They still talked at the dinner table. She giggled and carried on between bites of food. She seemed to be as happy as ever, content with going to the movies once a week, having supper out twice. When they went out, they always held hands and she smiled. He held hands with a feigned smile.
She didn't complain he slept in his den every night, on the hard futon. They'd gotten used to the habit of sleeping apart. He just kissed her goodnight in her room, then went to his. Sometimes, at bedtime, she'd say, "Too bad you snore so loudly. It would be nice if we could sleep in the same bed."
The den was a place for respite. Each night he'd go there after saying “goodnight.” Shut the door quietly and fire up the computer with high speed internet. He'd look at pornography and masturbate into paper tissues. He’d have a different girl every time – sometimes two at once. He'd pitch the soaked tissues into the wastebasket beneath his desk and fall asleep on the hard futon.
One day, he went on a business trip, away to another city. One night, he had too much to drink with his business pals, then went back to the hotel. He turned on the pay-per-view, and picked a porno movie. Cheerleaders did high kicks without panties. But, he couldn't manage to masturbate. Perhaps 12 shots of tequila had disabled him. He felt rage at this, so he called his wife.
"I don't love you anymore," he growled into the receiver.
She thought he was joking, so, he said it again. "I don't love you anymore."
He woke up the next morning with a terrible headache. Still half drunk and the phone hanging off the hook, beeping the busy signal.
He couldn't remember what he'd said, but he could recall yelling into the receiver for a long time, while she cried. The details were hidden in a miasma of intoxication. But, he knew it hadn't gone well. They’d never argued before, at least not with raised voices.
He called home. No answer. He called her cell phone. No answer.
He went to the last conference of the trip, in suit and tie, carrying his briefcase, in pain from his hangover. At every break, he'd call her on both phones. She still didn't answer.
He got on a plane and returned home. He found her in bed. The dog had shit and pissed all over the place. It stank. She'd taken a fistful of propranolol and wasn't breathing.
At the funeral he leaned into her casket and kissed her on her stiff, narrow lips.
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