She walks into the room
where her husband sits,
deep in his chair.

She stops for sec to smile at him.
He looks up and says "What?!"

"Nothing. Jeez. Go back to your paper."

"What the hell is it now? All I said was 'What?'"

"And all I did was smile. It's a habit. It was the way I was raised. My mother would always smile when she saw
me come into the room. She was happy to see me. So I was just smiling."

She feels ready to cry but refuses it.

"Fine. See. I'm smiling. How are you? Nice to see you since the last time, what was it, five minutes since the last time I saw you."

He shakes the paper into order and pulls it in front of his face.

Quickly and hidden, she gives him the finger, slips into the kitchen,
opens the refrigerator,
and stands there.
Shaking.

She shuffles around, tying to find some use for her being there.
She twists the faucet knobs tighter.
A tiny drop of water clings
to the faucet's lip.
She refolds a hand towel,
pulls a loose fringe out,
rolls it into a tiny ball between her finger and thumb and walks
to the other side of the kitchen
to throw it out.

She stands above the trashcan,
holds her arm out straight
and drops that tiny ball of fluff,
as if off the side of a tall building.

She stands there and waits
until it hits bottom,
leaving nothing to chance.