She slept through the rumbling of his truck on its way up their gravelled driveway, slept through the rumble and squeal and the little explosion of air as the brakes were set when it came back to park beside their bedroom window. Those were sounds she'd grown accustomed to after twenty-five years of marriage to a trucker.
But his quiet footstep inside the bedroom brought her awake. She fought to breathe deeply, to pretend to be asleep still. She heard him open a drawer, and knew he was getting clean underwear. That probably meant he wasn't going to bother to come to bed at all. She relaxed a little, still keeping her eyes closed, still feigning sleep. Hangers rattled, the floor creaked a little, then the door swung closed again. She heard the click of the toilet seat, and the splashing sound of his stream hitting the water in the toilet.
Only then did she raise her head to look at the glowing red numbers of the clock: 5:15 AM. She was due to get up in twenty minutes. There would be no snoozing this morning, with him home and awake. He would be in her way, interfering with her quick routine, making demands. She let her tired head drop back to the pillow, and closed her eyes again, telling herself firmly to sleep. She needed the rest; that twenty minutes was valuable. She heard him in the kitchen now, making his coffee. She let the sputters and moans of the coffee pot lull her toward drowsiness.
The alarm blared. Her arm shot out from under the covers, fingers hitting snooze of their own volition. But then she remembered, made her clumsy fingers move to click the alarm off instead, and made her unwilling feet come out from under the covers. She groaned a little as she sat up in bed. She hadn't had nearly enough sleep - but it would have to do.
She quickly made the bed, pulled a bra and panties from the dresser drawer, shucked out of her sleepwear, snatched up the outfit she had hanging ready on the closet knob, and walked down the hall to the bathroom. He was still in there; the shower was running. She opened the door, kicking his dirty clothes to one side with her bare foot as she entered thick fog. She hung her outfit on the hook, dropped her clean undies onto the sink board beside his. She flipped the toilet seat back down, and sat.
"Good morning," she offered.
Through the frosted shower door she saw his lean shape turn. "It is about time you got up," he said. "You are barely in time to scrub my back. Get in here."
Quickly she wiped, but didn't flush, as there was not enough water pressure. She flipped the lid down instead, slid the door back, and stepped inside the stall.
The water was not as warm as she liked, but it still felt good against her skin. It seemed to be beating life and energy into her tired body. Quickly she rinsed, stuck her head into the flow, applied shampoo.
Her husband held washcloth and soap out. She took them. He turned his back to her, and braced his hands against the solid part of the wall, well above the area where the tiles were cracked and coming off. She sudsed up the washcloth, and ran soap all over his back. It was a strong, wiry back. She used to love scrubbing it this way. But there were several red blotches on it this morning. Lipstick? Vigorously she scrubbed, trying to wipe the suspicion from her mind as she removed the blotches from his back.
"Watch it!" he complained. "You are supposed to scrub my back, not break my back!"
"Sorry," she murmured. Something was caught on the washcloth. She pulled it free, and stuck it to the shower wall near the door. "Done," she said, and handed the washcloth back to him.
He started scrubbing his hairy legs, while she took soap and ran it quickly all over her body. Not wasting a second, she sudsed, then rinsed. Getting the shampoo out of her hair took the longest; nonetheless, she was finished with everything before he was. She stepped out of the shower, dried quickly, and pulled on her panties, bra, and slacks. Just as she pulled the turtleneck over her head she heard the water go off. She hung her towel, grabbed her brush, and headed back to the bedroom. In that fogged up mirror she couldn't see to brush her hair anyhow.
Her hair was short, fine, thin, and silver. It was naturally wavy; in all her years she had never had a permanent. Now she brushed it into curls in front of the bedroom mirror. She didn't even need to blow dry; she would be on her way to work in 30 minutes, and her hair would be dry by the time she arrived. She sat on the side of the bed, and pulled on her shoes and socks.
Her husband came out of the bathroom as she was sorting laundry. She scooped up a load of whites, mostly her husband's underwear, and carried them to the washer, dumped them in, poured on soap, measured bleach, and started the hot water. On the way back she stopped by the bathroom to flush the toilet. She opened the shower door. There, on the wall where she had stuck it, was the hair she had removed from her husband's back. It was about a foot and a half long, and had a copper gleam. She stood, numbly staring at it.
Her husband stuck his head into the bathroom, his black hair neatly combed now in an unsuccessful attempt to hide the bald spot. "Hey! I'm hungry. Stop your daydreaming, and fix me breakfast."