She went to bed wearing the shirt he’d worn all day, a white collar button-up loosely noosed with a black tie from his closet. The outfit had become her night clothes and he was amused by this. He had passed out on the couch again in brandied dreams of analyses and number crunching, the button-up replaced with the alma mater crew emblazoned on the front. She used to think it smelled like Saturdays, but had no reason as to why.

Some nights he’d wake up and come stumbling into the room and she’d wake up to his clumsy rustlings then roll her eyes when he’d start to snore. The nights he was more cognizant took on a completely different tone as he’d realize she was wearing the tie. She’d wake up to him tying her hands to the bed with it after having slipped it off her neck. He’d violate her slowly and lovingly under the rhythmic fan blades above, curling the sheets up around them as he caressed every dimple and crevice. Afterwards, he’d untie her and she would roll on top of him and they’d pass out without a word spoken between them.

Tonight he had taken longer to come to bed and she couldn’t sleep. She slid out of bed and went to the bathroom to wash her face, rinsing suds off quickly and quietly. She had dressed in the dark and only now saw the faint smear of red along the topmost part of the collar. It was obvious he had tried to wash the stain out himself by the way it was smeared, but it was almost unnoticeable. ‘This wasn’t the one he wore today,’ she thought angrily, ripping off the shirt and going back into the bedroom. She stood in front of the dresser, half-tempted to confront him right then about the stain. Instead, she put on sweat pants and an old t-shirt, slid back under the covers and pretended to be asleep when he came into the room later that night. She heard him grunt a quiet confusion at her attire as he slid into bed and they both fell asleep without a word spoken between them.

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