I stand up, and we man-hug, and then he ambles away—his tread is heavy, as if that weight he talked about, feeling heavy, inside, was nearly too much to stand up under.

I watch him go, and I knew then, down to my bones and in my balls and in my blood, what I had to do. It hurt. I wanted to deny it. To put it off. To fight, to hope; I would fight, I would hope, until the bitter end, I would. I’d hope this would all be for nothing. Wasted effort, wasted time. Wasted pain. Wasted sacrifice. But I knew I had to.

For my conscience.

For Nadia.

Whispers & Wine

Being married to a writer is hard. Don’t let anyone ever say different. They’re aloof, when they’re writing. It’s not you, it’s them. They don’t mean to be, it’s just the job. That notebook opens, that computer turns on, keys start clacking, pen starts scribbling—that person is gone. It’s the story, then, and it takes them.

He usually writes with his office door open, some classical music on in the background, cello or guitar or piano.

A month after his trip up to the East Coast, and he’s got his office door closed, locked. Silence, but for the tick-tick-tock-tick-tickety-tickety-tock-tock-tock of the keyboard. Fast and loud, meaning he’s really moving. Adrian is gone and all that exists in that room is a conduit, fingers and a story.

I’m worried.

He comes out after eight hours in there, looking wan. Shaky. Thin. In the words of Bilbo Baggins, he looks like butter scraped over too much bread.

I’ve made a pot of stew, left it to simmer for him. I’m reading, my day off. He comes out, props himself against the range with one hand, lifts the lid of the pot. Sniffs.

“It’s been ready to eat for hours, babe,” I say, rising. “Let me get you some.”

He waves me off. “Nah, nah. I’ll do it.”

I sit back down, and he ladles himself a bowl. Brings it to the couch where I am. Eats in silence.

“Adrian, are you okay? I’m worried about you.”

He eats steadily, mechanically. “I’m okay.”

I frown. “I’m not just your wife, you know. I’m a trained medical professional. And I don’t think you are…okay, that is.”

He stops eating, abruptly. Sets the bowl on his thigh. Sighs. “I know. I just…I have to write this.”

“That’s not an answer to my question, Adrian.”

“I know, I know.” He finishes the last few bites. “That was great, Nadia. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now talk to me, honey.”

He blinks. His jaw works. His eyes drop; embarrassed, angry, bitter, sad—I can’t tell. “I can’t.”