She washes the dishes on one of the coldest days of the year. Her voice is hoarse from yelling at the children to put on their mittens and scarves, even though they loved the way the wind numbed their noses and turned them pink. She decided when the first dull rays of sunlight touched on her and Gordan’s faces that today would be one for clinging to warmth from a mug and watching the flakes dance rhythmically to Earth. Of course, Gordan saw it as an opportunity for indoor chores that were often neglected in favor of sunny days. Macy spent much of the day skirting around her husband and shooting him furtive glances, gauging if he would raise his voice and hand like he had last week. All she had asked was why a woman had called at three in the morning.
At lunchtime, while Gordan was taking a hot shower and the kids were constructing snow houses, she noticed an alarm chime on his phone. The message read, “Tell your wife. She deserves to know.” A puff of air escaped her lips and her eyes narrowed. She knew it.
She rubs out the memory with slow circles on soup bowls and tries to drown out the happy sounds of their children down the hallway. The bubbles take flight and land in her nose, causing her to sneeze and the dish to crash on the floor and splinter into dozens of pieces.
The feeling of being watched creeps on her like a tempest. She checks over her left shoulder. Nothing. Macy squints through the window that has become a mirror with the sun’s descent. She notices her suspicious, almond-shaped eyes, narrowed as if accusing herself of foolishness. Even if someone were watching, what would they see? she muses. Her hair falls in limp, blonde curls over her round face. Once, she had the time to arrange it into ringlets so the tendrils framed her high cheekbones. Dark pouches hang beneath her weary green eyes and the lines running along her forehead are smashed together. A smattering of freckles form a constellation on her fair skin. For a moment, her eyes catch on her full bottom lip and the corners quirk slightly at the thought of an admirer. It seems like years since Gordan watched her. He used to come up behind her, kiss her neck, and pretend his arms were hers as they washed the dishes and splashed water on each other. Her cheeks, now blushed with pink, make her believe again that she is beautiful.
A shadow darkens her face and distorts the reflection. This time, she is convinced someone is watching her. She follows the shadow to Gordan’s dark eyes.
“You scared me!” she says.
Gordan clears his throat and looks at her—the wrinkles etched deeply on his forehead move with his deep inhale. He takes a rough hand through his thick black hair.
“We need to talk,” she says.
At the same time he says, “I’ve been going to a counselor.”