Daylight Savings

—an excerpt—

In this room, the fire is stoked, wood piled high that Dave has brought in dutifully from the veranda, returning each time with a snow-flecked beard that melts as he approaches the flames. It is snow like low-budget movies, clumped and clingy, or it would not be visible on the white of his whiskers. He has covered the entryway and windows with quilts and old horse blankets to keep in the warmth. He is a good man by most accounts. Their daughter loves him most, now that she is too far away for him to pester.

Lina planned to leave Dave when the kids moved out, but now she is weighted in place. She watches his face in the firelight, laugh lines folded deep around his mouth. The plan evolved over decades, included a secret bank account, talks with lawyers, and a brief contract with a real estate agent that expired a decade ago. Dave did not know.

Being completely alone is not realistic, particularly for the old; no one but yourself to witness life, to acknowledge your existence in a meaningful way. No one to pick you up from colonoscopies, dental surgery, trips to the city because now you are too afraid to drive and more afraid to take the subway. Lina imagined if she left him now she might die and not be found for weeks. And Sam, their eighty-pound dog with welling brown eyes, might suffer a similar fate because of her selfishness; because of her desperation for freedom from a man who really loves her, but was never able to express it in a way that felt true or good.