Linda sat on the edge of the sofa in the dim living room light, listening to the washing machine hum softly on the other side of the wall.
The night dragged on, like so many nights in the past two years.
David was in no hurry to get home.
She knew he would come in soon without even looking at her, leave his briefcase by the door, and head straight for the bathroom. They would eat dinner in silence—if he wanted to. Then he would sit at his laptop, and if she tried to make conversation, he would just say, “I’m tired. Talk to you later.”
