She lies in the bedroom, wishing for her husband.

She lies in the bedroom, wishing for her husband. Her husband sits idly on the couch, trying to force eloquent words. She feels cold under the blankets. He feels compelled to change the world. Their world, the world they share under a single roof, collapses. Slowly, ever so slowly. It crumbles like ancient monuments crumble, invisible to the naked eye, fading under centuries of rust and disrepair. She is the beautiful stone statue, standing patiently. He is the neglectful sculptor, content to let his creation rot on display, never tending to it, muddy rain turning to harsh green streaks on her pale white skin.

They do not understand each other, not anymore. They did once, before the day to day responsibilities of life overwhelmed them. They laughed at their differences, content with them. Comedy can arise from a pairing of opposites, from a chemist and an artist. But when both have failed at both, and only one refuses to give up hope, there is nothing funny about it anymore. They will have to reconcile this difference. They will have to find a way to be okay, to be okay with who they are.

For my own part, I have no advice to give them. My binoculars and their open curtains simply let history record this confrontation. I watch them every night, from two blocks away to the east. The cool breeze is always blowing in off the ocean, the foundation of their house shakes gently on its stilts. Every night, the bedroom light goes off at ten. The light above his writing desk goes off at three. Last nights word count? 87. This nights word count? Well it’s two thirty and he’s at 91. His grand total is 10,008.

She tries her best to wait for him. She really does love him. But she is not blameless for the temperature of the household. She has not said a kind word to him in weeks, too proud to swallow her anger and forgive. She has not been okay with simply letting him be for a long time. An odd compulsion to change him drives her. Sometimes they still share moments together, moments where they reach a comfortable ease. But always her disappointment hangs over him like an umbrella blocking the sun, it pulls down on him like heavy chains on his neck. He walks forward as best he can under that tremendous pull of gravity.

3:00 a.m. Final word count for the evening:  106. It was a productive two hours for him. He reaches up and pushes the off switch on his industrial desk lamp. Darkness floods the room, but the full moon shoves a little pale blue light in, giving him just enough light to find his way down the hall to the bedroom. He quietly slides beneath the comforter, trying not to wake her. He settles in and dozes off. They slumber together, dreaming different dreams, tossing and turning in the night. Tomorrow may be different. It may not. I will watch and let you know.