Late Night Revelations

Elara lay in the dark beside Marcus, listening to his breathing even out into sleep, and felt the familiar weight settle in her chest. Another day, another dinner where they talked past each other. She'd made his favorite cream of spinach soup - he'd barely touched it. The silence between them had grown so thick she felt she could slice it.

"You're quiet," he'd said, not really asking.

"Just tired."

"Work?"

"Always work."

He'd nodded, accepting the excuse, and returned to his phone.

That was the problem, really - Marcus never dug deeper. He accepted surfaces, never questioned what lay beneath. Elara had spent years compiling mental lists of his evasions, the questions he never asked. Why did you really quit the gallery? What happened with your mother? Why do you flinch when I raise my voice?

He'd stopped asking years ago.

She rose quietly, padding to the kitchen. The house felt too large, too full of things they'd collected together - paintings, photographs, the ceramic dog they'd bought in Mexico, laughed at its crooked smile, "That's us, perfectly imperfect."

Perfectly imperfect. The phrase mocked her now.

In the backyard, the summer air was cool. Their neighbor's fox terrier scratched at the fence, and for a moment she considered letting it in, giving it some company. But she stayed at the window, watching her own reflection instead.

What would she say if Marcus suddenly asked, "What's really wrong?"

She'd tell him about the gallery owner, the way his hand had lingered too long, the promises he'd made, the threats when she'd said no. How she'd been too ashamed to tell anyone, even Marcus. How the shame had calcified into silence, until now she barely knew how to speak the truth aloud.

Or maybe she'd tell him about the letters from her mother, the ones she'd never opened. Or how she woke up some mornings convinced she was already dead.

The sphinx had its riddle. Elara had hers: How did two people who once couldn't keep their hands off each other become strangers who shared a bed?

She knew the answer, of course. You chose not to see. You accepted the spinach soup untouched, the phone screens instead of faces, the silence that had become your only true companion.

Marcus appeared in the doorway, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Can't sleep?"

"No."

He hesitated, then crossed the room. For a moment she thought he might touch her, really see her. Instead he said, "I have that meeting tomorrow. Need to be sharp."

"I know."

"You should too. You have that restoration."

"Right. The restoration."

He paused, and for a second she saw something like genuine concern flicker across his face. But then he said, "We should get some sleep," and her heart settled back into its familiar rhythm of disappointment.

"Yes," she said. "We should."

But as he turned back to the bedroom, she remained at the window, watching the fox terrier finally curl up in the grass, finding comfort in its own company. Some creatures, she realized, were meant to be alone.