“Love and sex and hope and dreams are still surviving on the streets. Look at me, I’m in…”

“Huh-whazzat, boo?”

“Hmm? Oh nothing, just singing to myself.” Harold looked across the bathroom at his wife, her pale face reflected in the mirror framed by disheveled hair. The amount of bloodshot in her eyes was alarming. Traces of mascara stained her cheeks. He had to chuckle at the sight, for despite all that he could only see his lovely bride, future mother of his children, saintly daughter of a minister, and his destined companion for middle then old age.

“Please…do that…quietly,” she said with surprising sweetness for her state.

“Girls’ night out a raging success, I take it, buttercup.”

She seemed to wince, shake something off, then mutter, “Yeah, yeah. Woulda’ been home sooner, but Joanette…so trashed I spent the whole second half of the night with her.”

Harold froze. Joanette had texted him all last night looking for her. If she wasn’t with Joanette, then…

“Uh, sweetie? Umm…oh, shoot.”