Although her car was parked in the driveway, no lights shone inside.

In the living room, Anne's torn magazine from Friday sat on the pile--squared neatly with earlier matching issues--one of two piles on the coffee table, his and hers. It made him sad to see them like that, so symbolic of their life together.

In the empty living room, he didn't call out for fear of waking her, but she wasn't in the bedroom either. He stood staring at his black duffel on the peach spread where he'd tossed it. The lumpy black shape didn't fit the rigidity here, even though he knew the organization existed only on the surface. Looking around, he couldn't see anything in the room that connected him to this space. Anne didn't have any decorations on her dresser, not even a picture of him.

On his bureau, their formal wedding photo stood amidst hand cream, his electric razor, assorted pens, a screwdriver, and scraps of paper on which he'd recorded dates and reminders, quotes from famous people, and ideas. All of his things reminded him of theater props, telltale signs of the playwright's imagination, not reflective of the actor's true character.

He unzipped the duffel and dumped the entire dresser collection in on top of his dirty clothes. Then he emptied the drawers. Once he filled the first bag, he used boxes from the attic. As he worked, wisps of songs ran through his head, raucous measures from college mixed in with hymns from Anne's Episcopal cathedral, Boy Scout ditties, and lullabies from childhood. Each song dragged him from one memory to another, as if a master remote changed the radio stations, searching unsuccessfully for a clear signal. By the time the car was packed, Anne still hadn't come home.

It didn't seem right to leave a note about this kind of decision, though he'd never done this before and had no idea about the proper protocol. He made a sandwich and listened to the eleven o'clock news, debating whether to call his sister from here or from the motel. After stowing the dish and glass in the empty dishwasher, he sat gingerly on the sofa where the afghan uncurled as if Anne had risen seconds ago. Breathing deeply he closed his eyes and recalled last night's snow storm. Although he'd only had the one weekend alone there, he would miss the cabin. He wondered if he'd always regret that they hadn't gone there by themselves at the beginning. Anne might have understood him better, or perhaps it would have been easier there for them to see who they really were. In his mind, he listened again to the nothingness between flurries and felt the swirling confusion of flakes between the dark sky and the white earth. Carefully he folded the afghan and draped it over the sofa's back.

In the driveway he heard her laugh, and call out, "Good night. Thanks, Sarah. You're a good friend."

He put the note back in his coat pocket. Then Sarah's voice sallied across the wintry air.

"Happy Birthday."

"Thanks for the coffee," Anne replied, and then she stood opposite him in the tiny kitchen; she, rosy-cheeked from the night and he, pale from the thought of what he intended to say.

"Anne. I was just leaving."

"You did that on Friday."

"No, I mean for good," he clarified.

"Oh," she responded. He thought it a matter-of-fact kind of "oh," not at all what he expected, but then, he had tried not to think too much about what she might say once he told her.

"It's not an easy decision," he continued. This part he'd planned, but actually saying the words was more difficult than he'd anticipated.

"It's a big decision for you," she replied.

He examined her face for sarcasm, expecting the mood of the last week to color her reaction. Instead, she stood expressionless, fingers still on the door handle where she had come in laughing. Now her lack of emotion triggered his anger.

"Why didn't you tell me you wanted this?" He raised his voice. Amazed that he could have misunderstood her so completely, he waited for her answer, expecting a tirade of times and places, as if she'd been keeping a list for just such an occasion, undeniable proof that he'd failed her again.

"I did," she answered

Perplexed that she resisted the opportunity to blame him, he ran through the big arguments of the last year, those he could remember. She wanted to go out when he wanted to stay home. He wanted to save for a house; she wanted a party boat for the lake. She liked Woody Allen movies and hated his Jimmy Stewart penchant. He ordered Chinese when she craved pizza.

"You've felt this way for a long time," he said. Resignation and sadness overtook his voice, but her nod didn't apologize for anything. "You should have said it right out instead of making me miserable all these months."

"If I'd asked you to leave, you would have been hurt and humiliated for years," she explained. "You'd have begged me to let you come back. You'd have kept on buying poetry books and sending me gifts with velvet ribbons, romanticizing the failure."

"Did you telephone the cabin last night?" he asked. The shift of her eyes gave her away, but in that instant he understood her better than in seven years of marriage. "I would have asked you to come up."

"I know." Barely audible, her words fell between them soft and insignificant to the world.

He had been right not to say this in a note. his hand grazed hers as he drew the door open to leave, and he saw her flinch. He imagined her shrinking from the hurt to a place he couldn't go, but at least she accepted some responsibility for cutting him off, for their failure. Backing out the driveway, he looked up. She sat in the window, turning magazine pages. He waved.

"I'll call you," he said, knowing very well she couldn't hear him. All around, the truth of his dreams tumbled head over heels on the velvet carpet of the night sky, gathering speed as he drove away.

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