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That night it seemed like every house in the Adirondacks was silent except for the one on 318 Deerfield Road. Actually, every night it felt like this, but Al Gleason knew as soon as his wife walked through the door that tonight was going to be particularly interesting. This was primarily due to his surprise when she actually did step into their bedroom.

His spirits dampened when he saw her in the same clothes she'd been wearing all day prior, and none of that lingerie or skimpy nightgown or even simple thighhighs. What more could a man ask for than a pair of socks? Instead she was adorned in dull black stretch pants and a night sweater, with cozy-looking patterns and designs knitted onto them – Christmas trees and ornaments, sleds and snowflakes. Didn't bother her that it was the end of summer – she'd always had some weird fixation with staying warm no matter how hot it had been. Al's disappointment turned into dread when he saw her eyes.

He knew Sharon's stare. For her a look of hate wasn't a glower, it was a cold, narrow gaze. A glare was anger, annoyance, disgust. This was hate. He'd come to know what it looked like after a twenty-three year marriage.

She knows, he thought in utter defeat. She knows.

From behind her back where she held an unseen hand, she wordlessly revealed it and dropped the bottle of whiskey on the rug at the edge of the bed where he sat. What very little remained of it trickled out lazily onto the rug in drops. As she lowered her head, he lifted his, and when their eyes met in the dimness her hate turned to rage.

“I don't know who the fuck you think you are, Albert-”

“Sharon, just listen, my boys and I were at the pub and Paul ordered us some surprise drinks, I didn't mean anything by it, please god Sharon I'm sorry-”

“You meant everything by it you sorry fuck.”

And he did – why else would he have gone out to the liquor store after that one drink had left his throat itching?

“So anything else? Bet you're going to shoot heroin now?” Sharon was both crying and yelling now, and Kayla and Rodrick had woken up screaming in the other room as soon as she'd raised her voice above a sliver.

“I'm sorry, Sharon. I'm a shitty husba-”

The moment that cut him short seemed to happen in a blur. She raised her fist with the speed of a snake and before either of them even seemed conscious of it her fist had collided with his nose.

“Fuck!” He screamed, warm liquid running down his nose and into the palms of his hands when he instinctively grabbed on to it. “Goddammit, Sharon!” He'd collapsed onto the bedsheets and even then he didn't noticed she seemed just as surprised by her sudden jab as he was.

“Oh, Al...”

He diverted his attention back up toward her.

“It's...it's not broken, is it?”

He shook his head. He didn't know his wife could hit that hard. Usually she'd just struck with words. Where she pulled punches physically she let them loose through her voice. And still it seemed like the venom that oozed from those perfect white teeth and red lips cut into him twice as deep. “N-no. Baby, it's not broken.”

A short pause. “G-good. Because I don't regret anything of what I just did.” She held back more tears, turned away facing the door, almost exited before turning her head once again. Her voice remained low now, and only the children wailed down the dark corridor outside. “You know better than this, Al. Or maybe you don't. From what you just did I have a damn good right to assume you don't. And if this ever happens again” - her voice began shattering on the words happens again - “it's over.”

She left the room, sobbing, heading for the kids' bedroom.

He plugged his nose up with a tissue and soon the bleeding stopped. Only seconds later the kids stopped crying. And only seconds after that he found himself staring up at the empty ceiling for what seemed like all night until he was snoring.