The hour hand points to midnight, and Sam Manson lies awake.

Tonight, her double bed feels terrifyingly vast. She takes up mere inches; her delicate frame is curled into a tight ball.
There is a space beside her. It is a space he should be occupying.
Tonight, its immensity is heart-wrenching.

It is usually times like these – moments alone in the earliest hours – that her thoughts turn to him. Here, she can still picture him as he once was, so gawky and prepubescent and alive; her imagination conjures up his form beside her. Bony arms embrace her, lanky legs entwine with hers, and his quiet strength soothes her worries away. In her mind, she curls against his chest, feeling the ba-bump, ba-bump of his beautiful, pure heart...

From somewhere in the apartment, the sound of a lock clicking open can be heard.
Sam ignores it, and clings desperately to her fantasy. It is slipping away, though; footsteps are on the stairs, a light flashes on in the hallway, and the image of him drains through her fingers like sand. Still she clenches her eyes shut, willing, willing...

"Sam, I'm home! Sorry I'm late, work was craaazy – did you get my message? I hope you didn't cook for two!"

Too late. A voice calls out in the hall. The apparition vanishes, just like he used to. Sam sits up, just as the door opens. Half-blinded by the sudden light, Sam squints into the doorway. A man is standing there, and for a moment, her heart leaps.
Then she sees.

Standing in the doorway is her husband; her handsome, loving, loyal husband.
Yes, she got his message.
No, she didn't cook for two.
Her eyes prickle uncomfortably, as she gazes upon this wonderful man.
Oh, she loves him all right; she loves his humanity, his kindness, his practicality.

But this is not want she wants.