Amy lay spread out on the double bed like a pile of discarded body parts. Foothill blankets blended into her landscape. She had had a hellish day at the gas station: didnít sit once for over three hours, and managed only two cigarettes between customers. New Esso policy was to blame for that, not her boss, who was a pretty alright guy. A small trickle of saliva momentarily interrupted her rest. The great tectonic plates shifted, then were silent again. If Amy were awake, she would not be remembering the day her husband, provoked equally by bravado and desperation, had glibly walked into her little Esso booth, dropped two and a half packs of cigarettes down onto the counter, smiled and said, ďItís over.Ē She would not be remembering responding, ďDonít do this to me at work,Ē to the back of his head, which had already turned, and was moving towards his laughing friendís car. She had sublimated hearing his exhilarated, maniacal laugh. No, if she were awake, she would be quietly worrying that her husband didnít think she was smart enough, that she wasnít witty enough to make him laugh or interesting enough to make him interested. She would be happy that he was with her, though, and happy that he had managed to get his job back on the line before the snowblower and lawnmower assembly company had been able to fill the vacancy he had left. She would, if she were awake, take solace in this reinstated security, in his professions of love, and in her love for him. But she was asleep, dreaming.