We sleep in separate beds. On the tv, it's a sign of wealth.
"Never have so few owed so much to so many," a voice says over the tv. I wonder if it's one of our creditors.
I want to tell her, "It's not your fault."
I want to say, "I've been distracted. There is this couple at a coffee shop. I think they're us."
But who isn't us, she'd say, dismissing it with cold logic, waving another bill. I've burned through the savings for the kid's college fund, the new car, everything. People don't want 9 to 5, they want Workers. Above and beyond the call of duty, but they won't pay for it. I think I am too honest in interviews. I don't want work to be my life.
I knock on her door, soft. "When I die, I don't want my tombstone to be how much I increased productivity on Line 7," I say.
She doesn't ask what I mean; I take that as a hope. "You have to be able to afford to have one." Shadows gather under her eyes, grey threading into her hair like spider webs.
She's stopped dyeing her hair. I have nothing to say to that. I open my mouth, close it, and leave.
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