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Where were things such as the disintegration of a romance noted? What was the journal-of-record for lingering malaise, for empty hearts? Who marked the death of happiness?
    Peter remembered how Saturday afternoons used to be. Lazy. Loving. Reading the paper together. Watching a little TV. Drifting at some point to the bedroom.
    Milestones.
    Cathy came down the stairs. Peter looked up briefly. There was hope in lifting his eyes, hope that he’d see the old Cathy, the Cathy he’d fallen in love with. His eyes fell back to the text reader. He sighed — not theatrically, not for her ears, but for himself, a heavy exhalation, trying to force the sadness from his body.
    Peter had inventoried her appearance in that quick glance. She was wearing a ratty U of T sweatshirt and loose-fitting jeans. No makeup. Hair quickly combed but not brushed, falling in black bunches around her shoulders. Glasses instead of contacts.
    Another small sigh. She looked so much better without the thick lenses balancing on her nose, but he couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn her contacts.
    They hadn’t made love for six weeks.
    The national average was 2.1 times each week. Said so right here in
Time
.
    Of course,
Time
was an American magazine. Maybe the average was different here in Canada.
    Maybe.
    This year had been their thirteenth wedding anniversary.
    And they hadn’t made love in six fucking weeks. Six
fuckless
weeks.
    He glanced up again. There she stood, on the third stair up, dressed like some goddamn tomboy.
    She was forty-one now; her birthday had been last month. She still had her figure — not that Peter saw it much anymore. These sweatshirts and too-big sweaters and long skirts — these
bags
she’d taken to wearing — hid just about everything.
    Peter stabbed the PgDn button. He tipped his head down, went back to his reading. They used to make love a lot on Saturday afternoons. But, Christ, if she was going to dress like that…
    He’d read the first three paragraphs of the article in front of him, and realized that he hadn’t a clue as to what it had said, hadn’t absorbed a single word.
    He glanced up once more. Cathy was still on the third step, looking down at him. She met his eyes for an instant, but then dropped her gaze, and, hand on the wooden banister, stepped down into the living room.
    Focusing on the magazine, Peter said, “What would you like for dinner?”
    “I don’t know,” she said.
    I don’t know.
The national anthem of Cathyland. Christ, he was sick of hearing that. What would you like to do tonight? What would you like for dinner? Want to take a vacation?
    I don’t know.
    I don’t know.
    I don’t know.
    Fuck it.
    “I’d like fish, myself,” said Peter, and again he stabbed the PgDn button.
    “Whatever would make you happy,” she said.
    It would make me happy if you’d talk to me
, thought Peter.
It would make me happy if you didn’t fucking dress down all the time.
    “Maybe we should just order in,” said Peter. “Maybe a pizza, or some Chinese.”
    “Whatever.”
    He turned pages again, new words filling his screen.
    Thirteen years of marriage.
    “Maybe I’ll give Sarkar a call,” he said, testing the waters. “Go out and grab a bite with him.”
    “If you like.”
    Peter shut the reader off. “Dammit, it’s not just what
I’d like
. What would you like?”
    “I don’t know.”
    It had been building for weeks, he knew, festering within him, pressure increasing, an explosion imminent, his sighs never releasing enough of what was pent up, what was ready to blow. “Maybe I should go out with Sarkar and not come back.”
    She stood motionless across the room from him. The staircase rose up behind her. It looked as though her lower lip was trembling a little. Her voice was small. “If that would make you happy.”
    It’s falling apart
, thought Peter.
It’s falling apart right now.
    Peter turned the magazine reader back on but immediately flicked it off again. “It’s