'Sometimes when your father gets upset, he likes to go out for a walk', she said to the wide-eyed, nodding children. They watched her warm body move like spun silk in the kitchen. Her bangles tingling as she moved inanimate objects around. Their identical heads of jet black hair turned and ran as she told them to go pick out a book for her to read. In the meantime, she was busy perfecting the tea she was making for him. Honey-flavored green, with sprinkles of cinnamon. The cup protested delicately when she stirred the wet leaves too fast. She calmed down and pulled her shawl closer, glancing nervously at the clock. She could hear the children bickering playfully and laughing. The night wind howled at her pristine glass windows. The sound made her deathly afraid, although she'd never admit it, as she went to draw the curtains. The children did not dare to ask any questions as she silently tucked them in later. They searched their mother's eyes before the dream chariot approached to take them away. She cleverly avoided inquisitive innocence. Lights out, door closed, and that was that.
He came home when the wind stopped howling. The tea had long been cold by then, particles settled at the bottom. He looked around at the unwavering, empty house and slowly made his way up the stairs. She slept there, in his bed, at the far end of one corner. 'I hate you', he said, but she was already fast asleep.