The day Sara's husband stopped speaking to her, she had a dream. In it, they fought: he told her he'd slept with someone in retaliation for her cheating on him, and she was screaming at him like he was a crazy person, like no one would ever behave that way, even though in real life it had been the other way around, she had been the one who'd had the revenge fuck, because she didn't know how to forgive him until he'd been hurt too, because what good was it to hear him say that it meant nothing, that he was sorry, when her mind had been lied to and her heart betrayed?
And in her dream she had something to say, something worth saying, and it broke her heart that he wouldn't listen, and when he slammed the door she deadbolted it behind him so his key wouldn't let him back in.
And she turned to the laundry, the basis of a hundred other real-life arguments, and her husband was there to help, pulling out endlessly large sleeping bags and blankets from the clothes bin, laughing with her about how the locked-out version of her husband had run the last load in such a way that the clothes came out still folded -- a timesaver, to be sure, except that of course they were all still wet through the insides.
And when she woke up she was alone. One husband, still not talking to her, instead of two, and she wished more than anything that she could split him up, have a husband who she could yell at even though things were probably her fault, another whose shoulder she could cry on, one who would laugh with her over laundry and tell her it would all work out, because what else are you supposed to do when you make each other your whole world? When you are lovers and partners and caregivers and best friends, what happens when it all goes wrong, when one part of yourself sabotages the rest, and suddenly you're both evicted from the only life you know?