November 1977 – Stamford, CT

Angela tiptoed out of the nursery, holding the knob turned, to make the click less audible. As soon as the door touched the stop, she let out the faintest sigh. She had plans for what needed to be done when she had a moment alone, but with Jonathan finally asleep, she was trying to remember why any of it was important. All she wanted was sleep.

Angela shuffled to the kitchen, and poured herself some coffee. Thank God, Mallory had just been in the day before, or Angela would've had to use the sink sprayer to fill up the coffee pot. The dishes had gotten so piled up with bottles, pacifiers, silverware, plates, and giant pots for boiling water. Angela had heaps of laundry, with all manner of human fluids on them. She didn't really understand Michael's irritation with hiring a housekeeper. Angela didn't know how to do that stuff, and he sure didn't want to – especially since she was home all day, a point she actually found rather irritating, herself. To what productive advantage is it to be home when all your time is used caring for the minute and surpassing needs of a helpless infant? Not to mention, after only a week of getting acclimated to parenthood, Angela had tried to incorporate her workflow coming in via courier. But she'd hardly made a dent, and was feeling increasingly frustrated with herself.

Angela yawned, and sat down at the kitchen table. She noticed a typo on the engineering company's proof in front of her, and made the appropriate notes. I really need a shower. She flipped to the next document in the folder, and saw the new print ad for their Czechoslovakian makeup client, Vábit. It was a closeup of a couple almost embracing, but cut from about the ribs to mid-calf, the woman's white skirt whipping in the wind. The image was indeed alluring, but it wasn't directly related to makeup. They don't even have a nail color line. This is confusing… It would be so much easier to ask the art department these kinds of questions in a brainstorming meeting. Angela took another sip, and looked at it again. The woman had a perfectly cut torso. Angela looked down at her recently-stretched stomach and sighed, feeling deflated in every way. The more she thought about it, the more she wanted that torso, no matter what they sold. She wanted what this company had. That's something… Maybe there's a way to incorporate it into a foreground or background piece… Wait! The woman can have a lipstick or a compact in her hand. She's not even done applying it, and her man is positioning himself to rub it off. – Yes! Angela let out a tamed laugh of triumph, and wrote down some notes. She looked at the ad again. That really is a fantastic shot. She got up and walked to the bathroom, snagging handfuls of burp rags littered about, so she could dump them in the hamper. She turned to the mirror, and looked at her tummy from the front, and then from the side. I guess it's not super bad…but it was a whole lot tighter in January. She sighed, and logged a mental note to start running again when she had a free moment.

She heard the front door unlock, and fall freely back into place. No! Angela sped out of the bathroom in her stockinged feet as stealthily as possible. "Angela! I'm home!"

"Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" she shushed him all the way from down the hall. He looked offended.

"What's with you? Can't I say, 'Hi', to my wife?" he said with a curl of disgust to his lips.

Angela rolled her eyes to downplay the drama, and put out her hands to aid her placating efforts. "I'm happy to see you," she whispered. "But if you wake him, you'll wish you didn't."

"Can I please walk into my own home, and not be ordered around by a 3 week old?" he said, clearly annoyed.

"Michael, I just need him to get some sleep. Please? Just an hour," she pleaded with him quietly. "I just need a shower, Michael. I need to order dinner. I need to finish my notes-"

He looked down at her papers all over the table. Turning his head, he picked up the Vábit ad and looked at it. "This stuff still interest you…Angela?"

She ignored his childishness, and focused on his question. "My work?" Why is it always my work? "Of course," she said, defensive.

"No," he tapped the page and looked her in the eye. "These two. Does doing that still interest you?"

Ahhh…You've got a lot of nerve, there, sparky. She readjusted her diplomat hat, "To be honest, I'm a little conflicted… I mean, I miss it. I miss you holding me. But I don't want you holding me when you're mad. And you're always mad."

"I'm always mad because you're always acting like you don't want me around - like, I'm this huge inconvenience to you." Even through his pouting, she could see he was hurt, so she strove for patience.

"I'm hanging on by a thread, here. I'm sure I've had spots of sleep peppered throughout the 24 hr day, but I couldn't tell you when they were. I'm trying to take care of Jonathan, and get my work done-"

"Psshh!" he dismissed her, waving his hands to the disarray of the room.

"My work. Not our work," she glared at him. "That's why I need Mallory in here, to help with all this."

"Why can't you do it? Why is making this," he waggled the paper in the air between them, "available to everyone else more important to you?"

What? "Are you serious? You're equating my job with choosing to satisfy the masses over you?"

"Is there another way to read the evidence?"

Angela smashed both her hands to her forehead. "I. Am. Tired. If he slept with us, maybe I could nurse him in there and get some sleep. But you don't want him in the bed."

"That's my one chance to be alone with you! You want the baby to have that, too?"

"You want to complain, no matter which way it comes down the pike! What do you want from me? Having a baby changes things."

"Yeah," he scoffed. "That's what I thought, too." Grabbing his coat, Michael walked out, and Jonathan started to wail.

Angela dropped her head to her chest and sighed. Wiping tears from her eyes, she walked to the nursery. "I'm coming, baby."


When Michael walked in to the dimly lit living room a couple of hours later, Angela was sitting on the couch with the radio on low, Jonathan asleep on her chest. She'd gotten a 6 minute shower, and her damp hair was curling into beachy waves.

"Hey," he said softly.

"Hey. Where'd you go?" she asked tentatively.

"Gym." She nodded. He looked around, like he still couldn't settle. "Look, Angela. I just miss you. I thought…you know, you'd want this. This life. With me and the baby, once you had it." She looked away, growing irritated. "But you still would rather have your job, and that really blows." She squinted her eyes, and tilted her head up at him. "It just seems like we're not enough for you."

The familiar call of insecurity caught her breath. I don't know if he's trying to manipulate me, but this could also easily be true. She scooted to the edge of the couch, and turned so she could lay Jonathan down on the cushions. Gently placing a blanket on him, Angela straightened and walked closer to Michael. She whispered, "I don't know where you got the idea that I can't love you and want to work. Don't you love me? Don't you want to work?"

"Not here."

A slow realization came over her face. "So, you don't want to be here, and you're hurt because you think I feel the same way?" Angela pieced together quietly. She sadly shook her head. "That's not the way it is for me at all."

"I thought when we had Jonathan, you'd choose us; choose me. But you still want to do everything you did before, and have me pick up the slack."

Angela's eyes widened, and she had to hog-tie the volume demanding escape. How does he let himself get away with that kind of arrogance? "I'm not asking you to take care of my SHIH Tzu while I'm on vacation; this is our son. Ours. And I'm trying to work. Hell, I'm just trying to function. Didn't you get a whiff of that those three days you took off when we brought him home?" she pelted in a whispered fury.

He looked at her completely unphased. "Look, other women do it. I don't get what the bid deal is."

"Then you should watch; just observe us for a day, without an agenda."

Michael growled softly, and raked his hands back though his hair. He turned around, and spoke quietly. "I don't get it, Angela. You're good at everything. Sometimes…I think the only reason this isn't working is…because you don't want it to."

"Don't you have things that come easier to you than others? This is hard for me."

"Being my support is hard for you?" he said, turning back around.

"Is that what I am to you?"

"Maybe not the whole of it…but a pretty big chunk."

She felt pinched down to Lilliputian size. We are in such different places. He diminishes me, and doesn't even see a problem with it. Sighing, she shook her head, and walked to the kitchen table. "You want some tea?" she whispered.

He waited for a couple of seconds, then answered, "Sure."

She poured the hot water, and opened the box of tea bags. Dunking one in each cup, she looked at him. "Milk or sugar?"

He looked at her cautiously. "Yeah, both. Thanks."

Angela prepped their cups, and returned the milk to the fridge. She propped her hip up against the counter, waiting for the tea to steep. "I really am trying to understand. What makes you think I'm not choosing you if I want to keep working?"

"I don't see how it's unclear at all. One, you're here, taking care of our baby, making us a home. The other, you're somewhere else, doing something else."

Her head tipped back in understanding, and she sat down at the table. He joined her. "See, I don't see myself as your support personnel. I see us as partners toward the same goal, a life we share. Responsibilities we share. Happiness we share – I mean, that's my goal."

He tilted his head and looked at her hands around her cup. "So, you want to be with me? Just not all the time? How is that different from me?" he said like he was inching up to her.

I don't know if he's trying to understand, pick a fight, or smooth things over. "No. I'm saying I'm not trying to get away from you and Jonathan, but there are things I do away from you both that are good for me. And if they're good for me, they're good for us. I'm not doing those other things for the purpose of getting away. I'm doing it to strengthen and relieve myself so I can be the best version of myself, and that's what I want to give you and Jonathan." He slowly nodded. She hesitated a second. "…Do you just want to get away from us?"

He didn't say anything for many seconds. Okay, this is painful… Finally, he spoke. "There are things I like to do, be outside, be away, that I don't get to do right now. I'm stuck in a concrete hole, editing hours and hours and hours of film, frame by frame. When I come home, I just want to be with you. And you're just wanting time for yourself, to work for someone else, toward another goal. Or you're shushing me before you even say hello. I despise this part of my job. I just need a break from it, before I have to go back the next morning. Honestly, I can't wait 'till my next assignment. I'm going to be missing you and Jonathan, and probably dreaming of spending time with you even while I'm there. But it's no more of a fantasy than it is here. At least there, I'll be outside, doing what I love to do. And I have no idea how you're going to cope."

How I'm going to cope…Angela looked down and closed her eyes; the loneliness a closer companion than he. In the background, Rita Coolidge softly sang We're All Alone in the shadowed room. Angela kept her eyes shut, as she took a long, slow sip of tea.

His voice softened, "Angela, I don't want to be away from you. I do want to be shooting film in the field. I hate it here. In the city. Suits and subways. Noise and chaos. But I don't actually want to be away from you. I want you there with me."

She opened her eyes, and talked through the layer of tears, negating her lack of target. "But I'm here. And even if I didn't have job that I loved – at which I were good, for which I'd spent my whole life preparing - I don't want to live in a tent with a baby." A tear fell down her cheek. He smiled flatly, and thumbed it away.

There really isn't anything to say, I guess.

Michael scooted his chair back, and Angela whipped her head around to see if Jonathan had been disturbed. They both let out a breath, though his seemed more frustrated in nature than relieved. He shut his eyes briefly, then held his hand out to her. She looked up at him, feeling unsure of almost everything. Sadness, softness, and sincerity all seemed to be making an appearance, but it all felt pretty fuzzy, and she could've been making it up. She was so tired. I need a break, too. Taking his hand, Michael gently pulled her to standing. He led her away from the table and chairs, and stepped up to her. They fell in step with the gentle sway of the music. He placed his hands at her waist, and ducked his head down to kiss her neck. Angela pinched her eyes shut, wishing things were better. Another couple of tears fell, but she was in her favorite place, already receiving treatment. She brought her arms up behind his neck, and leaned her forehead against his collar. He pressed her tightly to him with his left hand, and loosely ran his right up and down her back.

"I don't know why we can't do this," he nuzzled by her ear. "I just want to be with you."

The ballad gently wafted off, and Heaven on the 7th Floor came on. He grinned down at her, using the rhythm as permission to adjust the mood. The bubbly pop sounds alternately pushed Michael's thighs into hers on the beat. She giggled, in spite of herself. When he reached down to grab her butt as part of the dance, she held his face and kissed him the way she missed him.