the house that Nancy had inherited from her mother, the house where Nancy grew up...with logs in the fireplace, and photographs on the mantle.

“Someday,” Nancy had assured Evan, “the memories in this house will be our memories.”

Evan The Detonator opened the door.  Nancy was lying on the sofa, wearing a flannel nightshirt patterned with breakfast food: bacon, eggs, toast, a stack of pancakes on the breast-pocket.

“You look awful,” she said, muting the TV with the remote.

“Too much of a good thing,” he said.  “I shouldn’t have had the souffle.”

“I’ll get you some ginger ale.”

Evan sat in front of the TV; a commercial was on...for Paxil.  A blissed-out mommy, riding a carousel with her twin daughters.  Evan watched the mommy’s soundless mouth laugh.

Nancy brought him a glass of ginger ale.  He watched his wife’s mouth.  He thought she was saying something about ginger ale being soothing on the stomach, but he wasn’t sure.  He was listening to Jeanette, inside his head.  And she was saying:

“Unlike Paxil, I’ll never give you constipation, yawn or tremors––my side effects are only pleasant ones.”

Evan gulped ginger ale; he handed his wife the empty glass.  She could see that his gifted fingers were shaking.