Lisa H, a waitress, worked late and rode the subway home, despite carrying cash. Her husband read a book in bed, their daughter asleep in the next room. She took a long, hot shower. She climbed into bed, steam clinging to her skin. New sheets. He lowered the light to a glimmer.
Outside someone leaned on a car horn and the husband grimaced, wishing he could stop it and then it stopped. She turned on her side, away from the light. He leaned over, kissed her on the temple. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, he thought. They’d had twenty-two of them. In a minute she was asleep.