Liz Kingsley

The husband and wife are in their small bedroom, talking about whether
she will leave him for the woman she loves. This conversation takes place
every day. She sits on the green club chair his parents gave them
and he balances on the edge of their sleigh bed, rocking back and forth
on the curved piece of cherry wood that sold them on the bedroom set.
He lists the reasons she should stay: he would like a chance to make
things right and the boys deserve their family to remain intact. She looks
at the pattern on the chair cushion and wishes she were a tiny, sewn,
yellow flower, indistinguishable from dozens of others from which no one
awaits a decision. If she leaves, he will give up his law practice and work
at Radio Shack. He looks concave, like a pumpkin whose seedy ambition
has been scooped out. She considers walking to where he teeters
on the wood to steady him and stroke his cheek. At the same time,
she deigns to hope he will shepherd her through leaving. As for him,
he’s rotting. No one can help her.