"I'm not going to work today."
Although her husband was murmuring face-down into his pillow, Trudy heard him all the same. She propped herself up on her elbow, the sheet sliding down her shoulder. "What's the matter?"
"I'm not going to work today."
She stilled. Peter never took time off from the office, despite how often—no, because how often — she begged him otherwise. She abruptly rolled over and swung her feet over the side of the bed. "I'll go and make you some soup."
"No." He grabbed the back of her nightgown, and the neckline went tight against her throat. "I'm not ill." He let go. Trudy looked down at her lap, her bare feet on the floor. "What do you want, Peter?"
She heard him scoot into her side of the bed. An arm wound around her waist. "I want to stay here with you."
Trudy felt the tremble of his mouth against her back, through her nightgown. Three days ago, this was a different woman, a different circumference, in your arm. The thought was sharp and sweet, like sucking down cold water after eating a mint.
"All right," she said. "Move over."
"I'm so tired," he said, curling his body into hers. They lay face to face on her pillow, and soon after his mouth slackened.
Trudy listened to the shallow of his breathing, but didn't fall asleep.
When he awoke, he refused to let her prepare breakfast.
"No, no, we'll have—cereal. On the floor, in front of the television," Peter ran his hand through his hair and shut the closet door on her dresses. "You don't have to change."
"Peter, this is white." She gestured at her nightdress, fingering the rosettes at the hem. "It'll get dirty."
"Nonsense, dear, the floor is immaculate." Peter hefted his eyebrows. "Or are you afraid you'll just spill all over it?"
"My manners, Peter Campbell, are immaculate," she giggled as she turned to make the bed. He smiled, relieved, and if this was some sort of test for her, it was the good kind of test, the kind she'd always pass.
They watched Gunslinger cross-legged, with a box of Cap'n Crunch between them. Peter refilled his bowl twice. Trudy attempted to tug the fabric of her gown over her bare knees, then gave up. Her empty bowl was cold against her right shin.
Peter reached his left hand over to move the cereal box to the side, then skimmed his fingers up her right thigh. She watched the flex of his hand, the light glinting off his wedding band.
"I'm sorry." His voice was low, coiled. "I forgot that Westerns must be boring for you."
Trudy blushed and tried not to bite through her lip. "They're not always boring." His fingers were damp, or maybe she was sweating underneath his touch, and she stretched out her legs and he pushed her gently down.
Forgiveness is such a strange thing, she thought as he kissed her for the first time since he confessed. I wish you could save this for me, only me, always.
Afterward, she got up and clicked off the television. "I have a lunch meeting with the ladies from the Symphony," she said apologetically.
"Oh," he said, and his hands stopped buttoning his pajama shirt. "Which one?"
"The Philharmonic."
"Well. You should get ready, then." He bent over to clean up the cereal bowls, nesting one into the other.
"It's just for an hour."
He kissed her forehead, and passed her into the kitchen. "I'll be waiting when you get back."
Even after the shower and quick blow-dry, her face was flushed in the bathroom mirror. Through the taxi ride to Lincoln Center, she looked up at the bit of sky she could see, and crossed her fingers.