The Blue Hour at the Desert Inn

Maria lay on the lounge chair by the pool, watching the cable repair guy work on the junction box outside their hotel room. His van was parked at an angle, blocking her view of the mountains. David was inside, scrolling through his iPhone again, probably checking work emails despite promising to disconnect.

"You're going to burn," David said, appearing in the doorway. He held two sweating glasses of champagne.

"I don't care." She didn't turn around. "The cable guy's been there for two hours. What could possibly take so long?"

"Maybe he's fixing his life. Maybe he's in there rewiring his entire existence." David set the glass on the small table between their chairs. "Maybe we all should."

Maria finally looked at him. The desert sun caught the gray at his temples, made him look like the man she'd fallen in love with twelve years ago. Before the promotion. Before the house they never saw each other in. Before everything became a transaction.

"Is that what this weekend is?" she asked. "A rewiring?"

David sighed and sat in the adjacent chair. His palm covered hers on the armrest. The contact startled her—how rare it had become. "I got the call yesterday. They're offering me the London office."

"London." She watched the water ripple in the pool. "And what did you say?"

"I said I'd talk to my wife. That I'd bear the news to the person whose opinion actually matters."

Maria pulled her hand away. "And if I said no? If I said I like my job, my friends, the life we've built?"

"Then I'd say okay." David reached for his iPhone, then stopped himself. "But I'd also ask when was the last time you actually liked any of it."

The cable guy emerged from their room, wiping grease from his hands with a rag. He nodded at them, got in his van, and drove away.

"Well," David said. "At least someone's problems are solved."

Maria looked at her husband—really looked at him—and saw how tired he was. How tired they both were. She thought about London, about starting over, about what it might feel like to be strangers together in a new city.

"The thing about bears," she said softly, "is that they hibernate. They sleep through the whole winter and wake up hungry."

David smiled, just a little. "Is that a metaphor?"

"Maybe. Or maybe I'm just saying we've been asleep a long time. And I'm waking up starving."

She took his hand again, palm against palm, and watched the desert sunset paint the pool in shades of gold and violet. For the first time in years, they didn't reach for their phones.