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partially exposed bulb under the lampshade reflecting
harshly in the glass of the framed print of Naples on the
wall. Paul had taken the photograph on their honeymoon.
Shelley hated it. She thought perhaps there might have
been a time when she'd liked it, but that would have been
before, and she hadn't really cared enough after to
redecorate. There were other things, more important
things, like tending to the dying garden in the back of the
house, or deep-cleaning the oven.

The hands on the small Bakelite clock on her vanity
finally pushed Shelley into standing, reaching around to
unzip her dress, and arranging it on a plush hanger she
pulled from behind the white slatted doors of the closet
before shutting them up again.

The bedroom used to have been their place, the secret
behind a wry smile over a cocktail, a napkin over her
mouth to catch an escaping laugh, colored pink from the
smudges of lipstick that would later find themselves
beneath Paul's collar. But it wasn't their bed anymore; it
was just the bed, and tucked underneath it was the basket
that was supposed to have been for the baby, the tiny
bedclothes they'd never gotten to use still folded neatly
inside. Somewhere, something had gone horribly wrong,
and the doctors had said that there was nothing to be
done to save it, and as Shelley removed her shoes and
rolled down her stockings, it occurred to her that what
they had really meant was her marriage.

Before, they'd made love what felt like everywhere in
the house - the parlor, on its burnt-orange sofa with her
head thrown back, hair slipping over her shoulders onto
the dimpled woolen cushions - the study, Paul seated in
the cracking leather chair while Shelley's nylons rubbed
smoothly against the thick carpet - even the garage on
one memorable occasion, concrete and drywall against her

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