It was such a long night at work. I didn't get home until 3:30 in the morning, so you can imagine my resistance when my wife kept nudging me to get up and go make her a cup of coffee. I finally stumbled out of bed and saw that the clock read 7:30 am. My face felt swollen and ugly, and my joints ached.
"Three creams and three sugars," my wife moaned.
"Okay," I mumbled through a scratched voice.
The living room was littered with toys that our grandkids forgot to put back the night before. That's alright, I'd get to it after I get the coffee going. The silence pervading the house meant that we were alone. This would be a beautiful quiet day for both of us. Rounding the corner to the kitchen my nostrils were filled with the familiar scent of ginseng and vanilla, in the next second, I heard the percolation of coffee from the hundred dollar maker which I got for my wife's birthday. After that, I saw my wife standing there with the door open to the fridge,
"We still have leftover sweet bread, do you want me to make you some french toast?" She asked.
With no answer, I ran back to the bedroom and found her side of the bed still slept in with the sheets covering the form of someone laying there. I grabbed the edge of the sheet and yanked it away; she was still there, my wife. "What the hell?"
"Running back to the kitchen, it was empty and silent, and the coffee machine was unplugged and sitting on top of the microwave.
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