Now the note. It would be difficult to feign Tom’s handwriting and she knew if she tried and even one letter seemed off, it could be her downfall. She paused, tried to get herself in Tom’s head. It couldn’t be long. Tom was known for his terseness. She had opted for typed; who handwrote their suicide notes these days, anyway? she’d thought bitterly as she banged it out, deleting the document afterward, a couple of nights before her grand plan. She made the note seven sentences, printed it out, folded it and stuffed it in the bottom drawer of his desk where he kept extra computer chargers. And what better way for him to be seen in death? So pathetically obsessed with someone who had rejected him, wishing peace to his wife whom he had grown so indifferent toward. He would hate that being his legacy.

In her bathroom, in front of the full-length mirror, she practiced her call to 911, which she would have to make in the dead of night once she began to smell sulfur. She modulated the pitch of her voice, rehearsed the pinch of fear between her eyes, the tears that would begin to fall once she “realized” what had happened.

The day of, she went to lunch with her friend Shirley. “God, you look as tired as you were when you left. What did you do?” Shirley remarked, sipping on a Chardonnay whose color reminded Odilie of a rabid dog’s eyes. They were supposed to be discussing fundraising plans for some charity Odilie had already forgotten the name of.

“You know, my dad was in the hospital, so I spent a lot of time in there. It wasn’t exactly a vacation, I’m afraid.” She plucked the cloth napkin off the table and flattened it onto her lap.

“Oh, you poor thing. I’m sorry, was I being insensitive? Spending so much time with the kids lately has made me completely forget how to have normal conversation.” Odilie shook her head.

“It’s fine. You’re fine.” Odilie took a drink of her water, looking furtively around the room. Everything seemed to have a dull sheen to it; like the room of the restaurant, its inhabitants and furniture were covered in wax.

“How’s Layla?” Odilie asked.

Shirley rolled her eyes. “Oh, you know, same old stuff. She was away most of last month. But then when she’s here, she’s really here, you know? I can’t complain about that. She spoils the kids rotten, though. And seems to be really overly invested in sneaker collecting recently.” She prattled on. Odilie liked Layla. She was a powerhouse with a highly demanding job. But she very clearly loved Shirley, in a visceral, profoundly ordinary way that had never surfaced between her and Tom, even on the best days.