They kiss goodbye before he leaves, in a slight hurry to get going. She is still in her fuzzy housecoat and slippers; he is wearing a grey canvas parka with a hood, and when he opens the door to the cold outside air, his breath comes out white steam.

She says “Are you coming home for dinner?” and he answers “I don’t think so,” and looks at her for a second, then closes the door and walks off down the driveway.

It felt good to ask him that, as if she would do something nice for him if she could. There is such a difference between offering it of her own will, and it being expected of her, when it becomes an unwanted chore.

They are off to the city early tomorrow morning. She has farmed out the kids for a night or two so she and her sweetie can do a bit of shopping and go out to dinner while they’re on their own, before coming home for the weekend.