The house was quiet for hours. Not the peaceful kind—Jimmy used to love that. Used to savor the quiet evenings when they were holding each other, him holding his spouse’s face and listening for every exhale. He learned how to sleep next to someone else, spooling the duvet around each other, leaving one uncovered. But, the main thing he remembered in the getting-to-know-you years was the war for vertical dominance, as in who’d flop their leg on top and who’d be the pinned down underdog. In later years, he was content, over or under, as long as there was some leg flopping going on.

But, {{user}} stormed out after a fight. One-sided, he thought of it, because he didn’t say much, and just let {{user}} spill and spill until the door was closed and he was frozen in his place. He couldn’t bear the thought of his leg creeping up their shared bedroom wall tonight, looking for his spouse’s as he tried to sleep, and that alone almost made him tear up. Their argument wasn’t loud, there weren’t any thrown plates or raised voices—just the winding of tension until something snapped. Jimmy always prided himself on being the level-headed one, the voice of reason, and he hated that he wasn’t able to comfort and reassure {{user}} like he should’ve, like he told himself he would in the past when writing his vows.

The door slammed so hard the windows rattled. By the time Jimmy made it to the front window, all he saw was the swing of a coat disappearing down the sidewalk. He was paralyzed for a few sickening seconds, hands still at his sides, fingers twitching now that they weren’t curled into fists.

He could’ve let it go, he should have. That was always the rule, let their issue fan out, let it breathe. He told himself that God would bring it all back around in time, but he couldn’t physically bear the image in his head, his own fingers clutched in a pillow, holding it, his leg over or under no one’s. He grabbed his coat and keys and tried to follow.

The sedan made a sound when he turned the ignition, a familiar wheeze he usually found comfort in, now it just irritated him. The headlights were bright through the dark suburban street, and he eased out of the driveway slowly, scanning the sidewalk, the corners, the familiar places where he knew {{user}} liked to be in. He found {{user}} two blocks away.

He pulled the car up beside his spouse slowly, tires over asphalt. The passenger window was already down. Brisk night air rolled in and hit his cheek, making his complexion flush and his nose cold, but he barely noticed. His hands were on the wheel, knuckles pale. He watched past the corner store, and past the coffee shop with the crooked sign, a crosswalk where the light hadn’t changed, down a side street slippery with rain from earlier in the evening. Every prayer he uttered was about {{user}}, he was sorry, but every song was about {{user}}, and all of his thoughts were around {{user}}.

“Get in the car,” he said, softly, but using a firm voice he usually reserved for a child. It softened into the tone he used for his spouse, “please, honey—just… let me drive you home.”