“How was it?” I’d called after him.
“Good,” he said from the stairs. “Tired. Gonna shower.”
“Did Ray fall out of the boat?”
A pause.
“Twice,” he said. But he didn’t laugh when he said it.
At dinner, he barely talked. I asked about the fishing, and he said it was fine. I asked about Tommy’s new knee, and he said it was holding up. I asked if they’d gone to the diner with the pie, and he said yes, and then he said no, and then he said he couldn’t remember, it all blurred together.
And then he reached for his glass.
That night, I lay awake listening to him breathe.
Mark always fell asleep in about four minutes. It was one of the most annoying things about him. I’d lie there thinking about bills and our daughter at college and whether I’d remembered to turn off the oven, and he’d be out like someone had pulled his plug.
