The stark white backings of the photographs reflected the overhead light like a camera flash, bright and blinding. Turning away, she stopped to stare at the back of her husband’s head, dull and flat, like the side of a pumpkin left to rot in the earth.
The years with him had their possibilities and then their disappointments, and now they were woven like a wool rug, the ends tied tight, forming an intricate pattern. She couldn’t leave without being hopelessly tangled. She had to drag him forward.
“When are you going to make a decision?â? she asked, still examining his head.
“I told you, meatloaf is fine,â? he replied.
She chuckled to brush off her building resentment. “No, not dinner,â? she said. “Getting out of this apartment.â?
“Are we back on this?â? he asked, sighing. He folded the paper into his lap. It was an invitation to sit on the couch, but she didn’t accept it.
She chose a photo from the white grid on the table and held it up to the light.