roger

Roger is the husband. He’s not a bad husband, which means to say, he isn’t a very good one, either. If truth be told, he never was sure what it meant to be a husband. He knew how to be a boyfriend. He knew how to be a lover – at least in his own mind. But this husband deal was more confusing. His father would say, “You just work, then come home and work at it,” which was his father’s response to most questions, though not a response to a direct one about husbanding from Roger, who would never think to ask his father’s advice. It was something his dad had said once, out loud, during a movie about a married couple. He didn’t say it with malice or contempt, but more with a fatigue. But maybe that was even worse. Who would know? What Roger did know was that Celeste was different, lately, changed, somehow, and it puzzled him, because he didn’t feel at all different. He noticed it mostly in bed, at night. Not the sex. That remained a battle of wits and temperments and desires and need. Always had been. No, it was after, when they went to sleep. Celeste was further away, now, and not just literally. He didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about it, but when it did cross his mind it seemed especially troubling. He had no time, now, though. He was busy at work. He didn’t know it, but his world was about to implode. Not literally, but in the way far worse.