Sometimes
I get the feeling that I'm
Stranded in the wrong time
When love is just a lyric
In a children's rhyme
Keane, "Is It Any Wonder"

In early September, the weather had yet to turn cool. School was back in session. Stephanie happily returned to her grammar school students, another batch of two dozen little minds just waiting to be shaped. It thrilled her, it really did. Mark was suffering from a dry spell of clients. He hadn't had a project for several weeks.

Collins was in bad shape. They all knew it, but they never spoke of it, least of all Roger. The rest of the group would put on happy faces for Collins and Luc, crack jokes and tell stories, but once they were out of earshot, they crumbled. Mark once embraced Maureen for a good fifteen minutes while she cried, standing in the hallway of the apartment building, her face buried in his shoulder.

Roger, Mark noticed, was suddenly becoming withdrawn and quiet, bordering on sullen. At first, he assumed that he was depressed at Collins's impending demise, but Mark had a feeling there was more to it. Roger, however, refused to discuss the matter with Mark.

"It helps to talk," Mark admonished. "We don't even have to talk about Collins. We can talk about…other things."

"There's nothing to talk about," Roger insisted. "I'm fine." But Mark remained in serious doubt.

Mark returned home from Collins's place late one evening and dropped his coat on the living room couch, even though he knew damn well that Stephanie hated it when he did that. It was late. He'd missed dinner. Ever since he and Stephanie had made peace, he really had been trying to change. He tried to be home for dinner. He kept in touch with her when he was out of the house. When there wasn't a deadline hanging over his head and when he could actually sleep, he was in bed with her at a reasonable hour. He was trying. He didn't want to go into couples' therapy. He wanted to try to fix this on his own.

He called her name, "Steph?" and was greeted by echoes. He called her again and this time received an answer:

"In the bedroom." Her voice was low, almost drowsy. Mark glanced at his watch—not even nine-thirty. Was she sleeping? He went into their bedroom. The light was on, as well as the television perched on the dresser. The sound was low; she wasn't watching. A black and white movie that Mark didn't know the title of was playing on the screen, something with Marilyn Monroe in it. Mark glanced at the full-figured blonde as she sang in a breathy voice in front of a bandstand, "I want to be loved by you…"

"I'm sorry I missed dinner," he said by way of apology. "I got caught up. I should have called."

"It's fine," Stephanie replied curtly. It was then Mark noticed the suitcase on the bed—half-filled.

"What's this?" he asked. "What is this? Steph, what's going on?"

Stephanie dropped a few of her t-shirts into the suitcase. "You tell me." She couldn't, or wouldn't, look him in the eye.

"Is this about dinner? I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you. I've been doing good with the dinner thing lately—"

"It's not just about dinner. It's about dinner last night and the night before that and the night before that and the night before that. It's about you sitting on the couch watching your movies rather than sleep with your wife," Stephanie clenched her fists as tears welled up in her eyes. "It's about your work. I've taken a backseat. I'm sorry, Mark. I…I can't do this anymore."

"Do what, be married?"

Stephanie bit her lip and nodded, grabbing her hairbrush off her nightstand and throwing it into the suitcase. She went into the bathroom, grabbed a bag filled with her toiletries and tucked that in as well. "The divorce papers will be arriving soon. I filed this morning."

"When this morning?" he asked frantically. "What did I miss?"

"That's a loaded question, Mark."

"How long have you been contemplating this?" Mark asked, sinking into the bed.

"A few weeks," she admitted after a beat.

"A few—shit, Steph, please don't do this to me," he groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Please, not now."

"It's too late," she said plainly. As she went to tuck in a pair of shoes into the case, Mark grabbed her by the wrist.

"I love you," he said, staring into her eyes, which she quickly averted.

"Again, too late," she said. "Please, let go of my wrist."

"I can't let you go. I love you. I want you."

"If you had told me this a few weeks ago, I wouldn't be leaving. Let go, Mark."

"I can't. Please, Steph, one more shot. I'll—"

"You'll what? Try harder? Mark, it's been five fucking years! You wait until now to try harder?" Stephanie yanked her wrist away. "I'm sorry, Mark, but you're killing me. I'm dying."

Mark felt as if he'd been punched in the chest. Death was a touchy subject with him right now. That was a low blow for her. "Collins is dying."

"I know."

"You're punishing me because Collins is dying."

"Punishing you?"

"How can you do this to me? Why? Why now?"

She finished packing and zipped her suitcase closed. "I'll call."

"I'm sure you will."

Stephanie pulled out the handle on the case and rolled it off the bed. As it hit the floor, she began to tug it out of the room, grabbing her gray pea coat on the way out. She glanced at Mark over her shoulder, but he remained unmoving. Sighing, she turned on her heels and stalked out of the room.

Mark listened to her leave, the sound of the front door opening and closing. He listened to the wheels of the suitcase make a thwacking sound as it hit each step of the walk-up. Once he heard a car start, however, he jumped up and went to the bedroom window. He watched Stephanie's white Chevy pull out of its side street parking spot and down the block. She was really leaving and there was nothing he could do about it. Even though part of him wanted to jump into a taxi follow her, he remained, watching her taillights disappear into the darkness, further and further away from him.

He wondered if she was crying, too.

"Hello?"

"Amanda," Mark said his mother-in-law's name as pleasantly as he could over the phone, smiling to offset the gag reflex. "Is Stephanie there?"

"Mark," Amanda said brusquely. "Still can't say hello, can you?"

Mark bit his lower lip. "Hello. How are you, Amanda?"

"Getting over pleurisy."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Is Stephanie at home?"

A pause. "She does not want to speak to you."

"So…she's there?"

"Mark, please. I don't know what you did—"

"I didn't do anything! I've been—"

"Don't call here again, Mark. If Stephanie wants to speak to you, she'll pick up the phone and call you herself."

"Amanda—"

"Good-bye, Mark." Click.