She then makes an effort to squash these thoughts, these random assaults on her own self and relationship. Maybe it is the mark of a coin. Unlikely, she reasons, but certainly a theory worth exploring. Worth seeing it through before jumping in the Benz and driving downtown and confronting him in his office, anyway. Before bursting in on a business lunch or a round of golf, tripping over her own inappropriate shoes as she swings this rogue calfskin pouch wildly about the air in front of him. Yes, it’s well worth a try. She then trots off to the kitchen, making her way to the enamel jar where all loose change is dumped upon arrival home. Both he and she have turned this little action into a kind of practiced ritual. And rituals are nice; they’re lovely, they signal a connection between two like beings. Crawling back up that circular drive and parking and walking through those doors again and dropping a handful of loose change into the jar somehow says, “Honey, I love you,” through these hollow, empty halls. To be sure, it is a language known only to desperate, middle-aged ears, but a language nonetheless.

A quarter won’t do it. A penny has already been tried. The dime, by quick process of elimination and by virtue of its size, seems improbable. Only the nickel can save her now. Save both of them, actually. From what she is not wholly sure, but the notion of being saved is a comforting one. She turns the coin over and over between her fingers, trying to focus and study it. Looking at that profile of Jefferson. The cute little ribbon at the back of his head, the base of his neck. How many people did this fine president save in his day, anyway? Thousands, no doubt, in some fashion or another—so why not now, in her time of great need? Why not, indeed?

The five-cent piece is held to the outside of the wallet first, to give some rough estimation of its size. Shape. Dimension. There, look at that. It is not a horrible fit, if not a perfect one. She is unconvinced by this little test, however, this rough application of matter and mass. Perhaps it’s better to check it from the inside, from deep within, where the offending roundness first began. Yes, that’s it. An ideal solution. She drags the entire enterprise off to the bathroom now, where better lighting exists. A makeup mirror, normally used for tweezering and brushing and flossing and plucking, will also be added to the mix. Help with the deed of unmasking the villain or clearing his good name. To find out the brutal, honest, ugly truth about her chosen mate. Whatever that may mean.