3 am

3 am, the dead of night. My chest hurts.

The familiar sounds barely register. The gentle hum of the ceiling fan. The more intrusive knocks and pings from the refrigerator, the measured flub when another minute is counted off by the old clock. The distorted whine from an eighteen-wheeler speeding down I-74, the futile protest from a dog awakened from its sleep, an owl calling for a mate. Then all is quiet again except for the muffled thumps from the washing machine.

I am staring at several innocent looking items spread before me. The small balled-up wrapper from a Jolly Rancher. A crumpled cocktail napkin from the Brush-off Bar, the ink slightly smeared but the number still legible. A dogeared ticket stub from the multiplex out on the ring road. A comb with a few teeth missing. A handkerchief with a smear of lipstick.

I have never bought Jolly Ranchers, have never heard of the Brush-off Bar. Have not seen a movie in months and don’t wear lipstick. Part of me is sorry I decided to do a load of laundry when I couldn’t sleep. Part of me is angry at him.

Though 3 am is prime real estate for flights of fancy, I try not to jump to conclusions.

I crunch the crumpled candy wrapper. It is probable that someone offered him the candy. I flick it to the side. The old comb follows. I pick up the napkin, turn it over and over between my fingers. It’s possible that someone else visited the Brush-off, but who stuffs a used cocktail napkin in their pocket, just in case? It’s possible he lent his handkerchief to a woman who needed to blot her lipstick, but who? But why would he have gone to a movie without me?

The longer I sit there, the tighter my chest feels, the clearer the scenario forms in my head.

Work would have been draining, as usual. Gerry would have urged Peter to come and have a drink, unwind. “Don’t bring your shit home to the missus,” would have been his argument. I can picture them sitting at the bar, elbows propped on the smooth surface, the place would have been quiet that late in the afternoon. Two women might have walked in and occupied a few stools further on.

Once shoptalk had been exhausted, Gerry would have told a joke or two including the women and the bartender and whoever else was there, or the ladies might have opened the conversation. The phone number, hastily scribbled by one of the women on the damp napkin, could have been pressed in Peter’s hand before he left to come home, or maybe she left first. She might have kissed his cheek, laughing merrily at the smear of lipstick she left behind. On his way home Peter might have remembered I was out of town, visiting my mother. He could have stopped and called the number, maybe he’d cancelled the call before she answered and gone to the movie by himself. But what if she had answered …

Or.

Remembering that I was at Mom’s, he could have gone for a drink. He would have sat at the bar, nursing his beer. A woman might have already been there or walked in a little later. Peter is not the type to strike up a conversation but always willing to chat if someone approaches him. So, she would have started, he might have bought her a drink. Something sweet and sticky. Maybe they had a bite to eat. Right there at the bar? Appetizers to share, why not? She’d have scribbled her phone number on the napkin.

But I can’t fit the movie into this scenario.

Wait, I was I gone two nights, wasn’t I? Did he go to the movie one of those and to the Brush-off the other night? Did he ever call the number?

A small convoy of trucks screeches down I-74, wakening the dog. The washer has started the spin cycle. My thoughts whirl through my head.

He loves me, doesn’t he? I trust him, then why do I doubt? Has he changed or is it me? What is different about us? Yes, we’re busy with our work. No, that’s not it. We don’t touch anymore, haven’t gone anywhere, or even picked a movie together in months, or longer. We talk but don’t say anything, do we? When was the last time I told him that I love him? When was the last time I heard him say it?

I sigh and look at the items again. What am I missing? What am I looking for? I rub fist over my chest.

We met at a party. Carla had dragged me there. I had felt out of place, self-conscious, shy, I had stayed on the fringes.

“Wanna dance?” He hadn’t looked at me, not really. His eyes had skirted over my face and looked away. “Okay.” The next song was a slow dance. He had held me carefully, as if I were breakable.

Before the week was out, he had come to the bookstore where I worked. Carla told me he had asked many people before he asked her.

 “Hi, remember me?” We were both shy, awkward, introverted. Yet we were married within the year. That was seven years ago. Is he bored with me? What can I do? What should I do? I’ve never flirted, don’t know how to be coy or cute. I don’t know how to tell him that I feel insecure. That I miss him.

The washer lets me know that the spin cycle is finished. In the basement I transfers the wet clothes to the dryer. I have a few hours before Peter wakes up. A few hours to decide whether I will ask him which movie he saw last week.

When I reach the top of the stairs, I see Peter, sleep tousled, drool caked at the corners of his mouth, pj pants riding low on his hips, staring at the coffee table.

“Woke up. You weren’t there.” His voice is groggy. “What’s this?” He nods toward the table.

“Found it in your pants pocket.” I can’t make myself look at him. Don’t want to see guilt in his eyes.

“Oh, babe. Ger and I went to the Brush-off for a drink, that night you went to see mom. This is his new cell number. His two-year-old tried to flush his other one down the toilet.” His hand is rubbing my back.

He picks up the movie stub. “Afterwards I went to see that horror flick, the one you said you didn’t want to see.”

He points to the hanky. “That’s raspberry jam. Jo in dispatch brought doughnuts on Thursday.” He chuckles. “I had jam dribbling down my chin, apparently.” His hand rests lightly on my shoulder.

“I thought …” My throat is tight.

He waits patiently for me to finish my thought.

“… It’s been so long since we, you know … And we don’t talk anymore, I thought …” I shrug.

Peter sighs, his hand slides down my arm, his fingers lace through mine. We stare at the innocent items on the table.

“I love you, Pat. I don’t say it all the time, but don’t ever doubt that, okay? Remember when we met?”

I look at him and nod. “You were all I saw. You’re still all I see. Okay?”

I finally find what I had been looking for all night. My breath, inhale, exhale.

I tug on Peter’s hand. “Let’s go to bed.”