She waited by the door. She was waiting for him to come home.
The first night she didn’t sleep at all. She watched and waited and nothing.
The second night she lay in their bed. She stared out of the window until the sun rose high.
The sun was shining and he wasn’t home.
She wanted him to be home by the third night. No later. She set her alarm for sunset.
He was coming home tonight.
Night three, she sat on the couch. A bottle of his favorite wine and two stemless glasses waited on the table.
A red candle floating in a bowl of water circled in salt and a lock of his hair. An obituary with his photo on it clenched in her hands. She left the door unlocked.
She smiled. He was coming home tonight.
She started to doze off when she heard heavy feet stomp up the porch steps. She sat up, eager, watching the front door.
Two dull knocks.
Strange.
The door flew open anyway.
He lurched in dragging clumps of dirt and his suit jacket behind him with his remaining arm. His eyes, bulged and bloody, fixed on her.
“You’re home.”
She offered him a glass of his favorite wine.
