The old plumbing above his head sounds like whalesong. She’s gone up to take a bath with a peeled carrot and a jug of wine. He’s eating a sandwich: tuna, because they have nothing else in the house. He closes his eyes—even the 40 watt over the sink is too much—and listens to his wife. He pictures her undressing, her shirt over her freckled shoulders, her shorts to the tile floor, her underwear. Her skin is so white it looks new. He hears her stepping into the tub, takes another bite of his sandwich, listens to the small splashes, imagines the ripples in the water as she sinks in. He wonders if she’s using the bath beads he bought for her on Mother’s Day. He wonders if she remembers he bought them for her. He takes another bite. He can almost feel the steam in the room above him, wants to disappear into it with her, to leave these empty rooms, but he’s not been invited. His sandwich is almost gone. He strains to hear more of her. He wants to be able to think of this later, turn to it like pictures in an album. It seems important to remember this.

Teague Bohlen teaches fiction at the University of Colorado at Denver, where he also serves as co-editor for the arts and literary magazine Copper Nickel. His fiction has been seen most recently in Pindeldyboz, and his first novel The Pull of the Earth was just released in late 2006.