stranger die. We know nothing about this woman, but we witnessed probably the most important moment of her life. Do you think she had kids?’
‘Evan.’ Her tone had lowered.
I peered out from our connecting bathroom to see my wife now sitting upright in our queen size bed. Her hair was in a messy bun. She had missed a big section in the back leaving a rat-tail. I could see makeup residue under both of her eyes. Her arms were folded across the oversized t-shirt she wore to bed every night. I missed the silk top and bottom she wore for the first year of our marriage. It would not be reappearing anytime soon. I was stuck with the white t-shirt for God knows how long. It symbolized our life now, the last year and half, boring, plain, and beginning to tear ever so slightly just round the hem.
‘Her name is Francesca. Maybe just Fran. Maybe Frannie.’ I waved the plastic ID in my right hand.
I didn’t answer her. Cindy looked angry as she rolled over taking my pillow with her to shield her eyes from the bathroom light and cover her ears from my comments. I bet she was called Frannie.
After further examination of the stolen license, I crept into bed, making sure not to brush my arm against Cindy’s. I let the license lean on the alarm clock that was stationed on our nightstand. Frannie stared back. She was familiar. I knew this woman. I must have.