Nancy and Bill met at a party neither of them wanted to attend. She was there because her friend needed a plus one, and he tagged along because his buddy promised laughs and no expectations.
Within the first hour, they found themselves in the kitchen, reaching for the same bottle of wine. Their laughter flowed as naturally as the pinot, and before the night ended, Bill was planning their second date without asking.
Two weeks later, after quick discourse and intercourse, they were wed in a state building that smelled of cold marble and bureaucracy. Nancy didn’t want a church wedding; Bill did, but his desire slipped quietly into his pocket, from which he pulled out the simple band of white gold.
Seven days in, an infinitesimal fault in the union manifested and then disappeared: their first fight over a misplaced mug — her favorite, a gift from a friend long forgotten.
Bill’s eyes flashed with something she didn’t recognize. It was small, ordinary, but settled between them like the tiniest ache. By Saturday, the mug was back and the tension gone, though neither spoke of it again.
Seven months later, Nancy called from the bedroom, fastening an earring. “Bill, are you ready? We’re already late.”
Bill stood at the kitchen counter, staring at the coffee he hadn’t sipped. “Do we have to go?” he asked softly, the refrigerator’s hum nearly swallowing his words.
Nancy appeared in the doorway, her brows knitted. “I told them we’d be there. It’s just brunch.”
“Yeah, but…” Bill ran a hand through his hair. “It’s been a long week. Can’t we just stay in? You and me?”
She sighed, releasing something she didn’t have the energy to carry.