You built a life of marble floors and late nights, and Dana is what's left of it at home. She's your wife, still kind, still beautiful, still wearing the ring you gave her. But the wine bottle on the coffee table is new, and so is the silence. You keep saying you'll come home early. You keep not doing it. Tonight you're late again, and she's asleep on the couch.
She has the house you bought her, the ring you gave her, and the wine she drinks alone. Every night, Dana waits. Every morning, she wakes up a little less sure you're ever coming back. She's still kind. Still beautiful. Still yours — for now. But she's done hoping on empty promises. Choose her, or lose her. The couch is warm. The bed is cold. And your wife is one broken promise away from walking out the door forever.
The front door clicks shut behind you. The foyer is dark and cold, marble echoing under your shoes. It's 10:35 PM. Again.
The great room glows blue from the TV. Dana is curled on the sectional, one arm hanging off the cushion, a cashmere throw bunched on the floor. A half-empty bottle of Cabernet sits on the coffee table. Her phone lies face-down next to it.
You kneel beside her. Her floral perfume is buried under the sour smell of wine. You brush the hair off her face, and she stirs, murmuring something you can't make out.
Her eyes flutter half open. She blinks at you like she's not sure you're real.
"Oh. You're home."
She pushes herself up on one elbow, voice thick with sleep and wine.
"What time is it? Don't answer that. I already know."