The waiting room smelled of cigarettes, although there were no ash trays present. She glanced at her watch, sat down and picked up a magazine. There was an article about Winslow Homer. She flipped it open to see the colors, dark and wet, the familiar seascapes. The oils popped up, thickly, in little curls, on the rough canvas threads. She caressed the page, imagining the oily surface, the bumpy dried paint. But the page was cold and glossy.

A soft tread, a shadow, announced a presence in the room. She did not look up.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hey.”

The cushion moved beneath her as he sat down. His hands were folded carefully in his lap. She noticed how his docksiders pointed straight ahead, the arches perfectly aligned, unconscious in their precision.

She read about Winslow Homer, about his home at Prout’s Neck, Maine, and how he had scorned society. “Pure hogwash!” he had said. The article, and Homer’s blustering, made her laugh out loud.

He did not ask what was funny. He sat, silent, unmoving, breathing softly.

“Good morning, guys!” The voice, warm and inviting, sliced through Homer’s biography.

“Hi, Alex.”

Alex beamed through his spectacles. He waved them in. She stood reluctantly, placing the magazine back on the table. She followed Alex into the smaller room, and settled onto the couch. She struggled out of her coat and laid it beside her. He, The Husband, kept his coat on. He sat in a chair, with his elbows propped on the wooden armrests, hands folded over his stomach.

“How are things?” Alex asked.

“I want to talk about something today,” said The Husband. “That is, unless Nancy wishes to discuss something of her choosing.”

Alex looked over politely. She shook her head.

“I want to talk about how Nancy spends her time. I’m afraid she just isn’t productive. Now, she is going to say that I want her to get a regular job, so we can collect as much money as possible. That’s not true. I make enough to support us both. I just like to keep things in order. I like money, and dealing with money, but I don’t need to have a lot of it.”

“Hogwash!” roared Winslow Homer.

“When I called her “a nothing”, I was only trying to say that she isn’t fulfilling her potential.”

She closed her eyes. There was his face, his mouth open in front of her, spewing the hot blast across her brow. Her bangs blew up – poof – when he said it. “You’re not a housewife! You don’t cook for me! You’re not a sex partner! What are you? You’re a NOTHING!”