It was the fifth anniversary of the night she moved in with him. Five long, dreary years begun with so much hope. He thought nothing had changed, she could tell. He acted just the same, except for the cutting remarks he made about how her body had changed. There were changes he couldn’t see, what five years of tedium and hard work did to a woman.
She finally drifted off to sleep, and was disoriented when he smacked her butt to wake her.
He sat up in bed, saying, “I hate things that go bump in the night. If that’s not a branch banging on the roof, I’m gonna go up there and kill it.”
“Take the shotgun,” she said.
And when he stomped out the cabin’s only door, naked except for his boots, she quickly dressed and went out the window.