Sleepwalking in Daylight. Elizabeth Flock

      “Want to rent a movie or something?” I ask Bob when we get home. “It’s Saturday night, Cammy’s in her room and we both know she’s not going anywhere and the boys are eating dinner over at the Spencers’ and I give it an hour until they call asking to spend the night there. So for all intents and purposes we’ve got the house to ourselves.”

      “I’m not really in the mood, sorry,” he says. “I’ve got to hop online for a while and motor through some stuff I didn’t get to this week so …”

      “Aw, come on … we have the house to ourselves. It’s like all the planets have aligned and for a split second the earth is standing still.”

      “Honey, I’ve got so much to do it’s crazy,” Bob says.

      “I could help get rid of some of that stress for you.” I do a slinky belly-dancey kind of move toward him.

      “Seriously …” he says. “I’m not in the mood.”

      “But you haven’t been in the mood for months.” Bad move. Bad move, Sam.

       “Months?”

      “I don’t know. Yeah, I guess it’s been a while. Maybe eight or nine months?” These words are a cartoon balloon over my head and I know we won’t be having sex tonight. Good job, Sam.

      “I didn’t realize you had a calendar out. I didn’t know you were keeping score.”

      “I’m not,” I say. “Forget it. I was just thinking maybe something’s wrong.” The question mark of another woman, another bedroom, threatens to clip the thread that’s holding us together.

      “You know what? You saying that puts me in even less of a mood.”

      “Bob, come on …”

      “Come on, what? I’m going upstairs.”

      I wait a few minutes and go up after him.

      “Honey, please,” I say.

      He spins his desk chair around. “What do you want?”

      “I don’t know why you’re so mad at me, first of all. What did I do?”

      “Nothing, just forget it,” he says.

      “I just feel so disconnected from you,” I say. “I’m not keeping score, I swear. I just feel … okay, wait. Let me rephrase it. Sometimes do you feel lonely? Like even when you’re here at home? Like this isn’t really your life, you’re just going through the motions?”

      “Nope,” he says.

      “Really? Even a quick flash of a thought that maybe this isn’t what you pictured your life would be?”

      “Can you get to the point?” he asks.

      “It’s just,” I say. “Every once in a blue moon you don’t get the teensiest panicked when you look around at your life?”

      “Panic? Jesus, Sam, where are you going with this? Our life panics you? Are you serious?”

      “Okay, okay, maybe panic is the wrong word—”

      “Sam …”

      “Surprised! Maybe you look around and you’re surprised you have this life. Don’t you ever feel that way?”

      “Not really, no,” he says. “I don’t feel that way. Obviously you do but I don’t. What’s so surprising? This is what we always wanted, right? A family, healthy kids, friends, a nice house …”

      “I know, I know,” I say. “Maybe I’m just—You’re turning back to the computer now?”

      “What else is there to say? You feel panicked and I feel fine. People can disagree, you know. It’s not the end of the world.”

      He turns back to the screen again.

      “It’s because … can’t we talk about this?”

      “We just did,” he says. He shrugs and starts tapping on the keyboard again.

      “What’re you looking at that’s more important than talking to your wife about your marriage?”

      I look over his shoulder. “Real estate? You’re looking at houses?”

      “I’m looking at comps,” he says. “I want to see what the Silvermans’ house is listed for. Is that okay with you?”

      “Bob, seriously. I only want you to let me in. It’s like pulling teeth to get you to open up and I’m so tired of it.”

      “Jesus, Sam,” he says. “Every other goddamn day you talk about how you feel about this or that. You’re asking me how I feel about this or that—”

      “Because you don’t talk to me! And it’s not every other day.” I want to say, I bet you talk to her. That’s if there even is a her. Maybe there isn’t, I don’t know. I don’t want to know.

      “Let me finish. I’m just …” He trails off, trying to form the words. “I’m sick of it. And now you’re telling me you’re panicked? I’ve told you how I feel. I feel nothing. You happy now? I feel nothing.”

      That last statement throws us both into silence. He looks startled and sorry the words have come out of his mouth. WHOA! bubbles into the space between us, freakishly huge like the POW! and ZOWEE! from the old Batman and Robin fights.

      “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you for finally saying that out loud.”

      “Sam, wait—”

      “I’m being totally serious,” I say. “I’m not picking a fight. I’m relieved, actually. It’s a relief to hear you admit it. You feel nothing. No—don’t get huffy—you said it. I wanted you to tell me how you feel and you just said it all.”

      “I don’t feel nothing like the way you’re thinking,” he says. “I don’t mean I feel nothing toward the kids. Or you.”

      “No, no, no—I totally get it. I think I’ve known it all along. But I want to ask you something. Don’t shut down again, okay? Just hear me out. Do you think it’s possible … wait, just listen! We haven’t talked about it in months, so don’t roll your eyes like that. Do you think maybe you’re depressed? You don’t sleep well at night. You don’t have a sex drive—don’t get mad, I’m just saying it’s a sign of depression. Nothing makes you happy anymore. This is sheer inertia.”

      “Here we go …”

      “Couldn’t you just entertain the thought? Why do you have that look on your face? What’re you thinking?”

      “I’m thinking I’d like to know what the Silvermans’ house is listed for.”

      I walk away and replay the sting of his words, letting them sink in and it is too big to cry about. That’s all I can think: that it’s too big to wrap my head around. This is where we are. I want so badly to know how we ended up like this. Yes, okay, sure, we never really had that spark, that chemistry, but we were best friends. Pals. Now we sit here in silence. It may be chaotic with the kids, but with us? Silence. That, or fighting. I wonder how he describes me to her. If there even is a her. Maybe there isn’t, I don’t know. Everybody argues and says things they maybe wish they hadn’t, but this isn’t that. He’s wrong—this isn’t all I think about every single day. I stay busy. Busy busy busy. I’m so busy I can barely think about what to make for dinner. Busy. I go to my school meetings and I pick up the dry cleaning and I cook and clean and do a million other things I can’t remember I’ve done at the end of each day. I am the queen of multitasking. I organize my errands efficiently. I buy flats of impatiens to plant only after May fifteenth when the frosts are guaranteed to be over. I help out with school fund-raisers. I run Race for the Cure every year. I plant mums in the front on October first. I pick out the freshest roping