Next Stop

Marsha’s husband came home smelling like a strip club under the mints he chewed loudly. She pretended not to notice. It took all her self-control not to recoil when he leaned in to kiss her cheek.

“It’s half past six,” she said.

“Thanks?”

“My train is at seven.”

He leaned against the kitchen counter, just behind her. She knew he was trying to remember, knew that he ‘d accuse her of not bringing this up previously.

“I’ll drive you to the station,” he said.

She turned in her chair to face him and smiled.

“Can you bring my bags down, please?”

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