"Let's go out,"
she might have said,
trying to smile even
when he didn't look up
from the business section
"There's a new picture
at the Cinema. Or we could
get a drink. Let's go out." But she knows
by the rustling, the way he rests
the pages against the table
between them,
that in a moment he will glance up
to smile patiently
and say, "I'm tired, dear."
He's always tired.
So she turns to the piano
instead, watching her fingers
as she tries to remember
the first few notes
of that song he used to hum.
"Do you mind, dear?"
He's reading something about
the stock market, something
important. And her fingers
stop moving.