Paul came inside, soaking wet, and for a moment left the door open. He was watching the stray drops of rain land on the linoleum, studying the patterns they formed as they pooled and mixed with the mud from his shoes. He has been outside, screaming at God, and his pant legs were smeared brown and green.

Maggie looked up only briefly. In a moment's glance, she knew the whole story. She knew he had been on his knees, praying and weeping, grasping with his wet hands for some divine intervention. She did not ask him to shut the door. Her eyes danced briefly across the open letter on the table.

Paul's boots made dark prints on the pale carpet of the living room. He staggered for a few seconds and then collapsed in his old rocking chair, the one Maggie called "Stinky." She was like that, giving names to every inanimate object she came across. Paul had said that he was drawing the line when she tried to name the cactus in his office Mr. Whipple, but once his coworkers started to greet the plant when they walked in his door, he accepted defeat.

Paul slicked the hair back out of his eyes, and in the process left a streak of mud above his brow. Maggie took a tissue from the coffee table, moistened it with her saliva, and wiped the splinters of grass from his forehead. Paul, unable to look her in the eyes, noticed how quiet her hands were. They seemed perfect, small and knowing, as they gently brushed past his sideburns. He watched as they went back to their original task, mending a hem on one of Maggie's skirts. The needle pierced the fabric effortlessly, and Paul tried hard not to sympathize with the cloth. He picked up the letter off of the table and read it solemnly.

The phone rang, and the shrill jangle startled Paul so that he dropped the letter on the floor. Maggie set her skirt aside and moved quickly toward the kitchen. On the way, she lifted the piece of paper from the floor and handed it knowingly to Paul. This time, he could not avoid meeting her gaze.

Paul, inwardly thankful for the break in silence, attempted to submerge himself into the letter. Strains of Maggie's voiced reached him from the kitchen though, and his thoughts drifted to her.

"…No, I don't think that would be appropriate….Well, if you knew that's what I was going to say, then why did you ask in the first place?" Maggie's voice was soft and unsteady, like she was speaking for the first time in the morning.

"...Maybe sometime next week, but we've both been so tired lately…She said what?...Well, I don't know where you got that, but…" Paul listened to the soft patter of Maggie's bare feet on the linoleum. He wondered if her toenails were painted, realized that it had been a while since he had even looked at her feet.
"Yes, yes, we'll be there…I said we'll be there…I promise…Yes, I promise. We will definitely be there….Okay mom, I'll talk to you tomorrow…Okay, bye."

Maggie had a beer in her hand when she returned from the kitchen. Paul watched as her long fingers wiped condensation off the bottle's neck. He closed his eyes and imagined those fingers curling around his own hands, imagined the warmth and the sense of motion. Still, he did not speak.

When he opened his eyes, Paul was surprised. Maggie was now working on a pair of his pants, a pair he was sure that she had thrown out after he ripped the seat on a park bench. They had been on their way to the museum, when Maggie insisted that they stop for a hot dog. Because she had trouble eating and walking at the same time without making a mess, they sat down. Unfortunately, when Paul stood up, his pants did not come with him. Paul remembered his anger as Maggie bit down hard on her lip to keep from laughing. He set a brisk pace as they walked home, but now Paul closed his eyes again and fought to relive that feeling, the feeling he had walking with her hand covering the hole, brushing against the fabric of his boxers. He set the letter back down on the table.

Maggie was sucking on her finger when Paul looked at her again. After an emotionless, clinical inspection, she moved back on task, cutting the thread with her teeth. As Paul watched her finish his pants, he saw a dot of red well up like a tear on her finger. When Maggie reached her hand to her mouth to remove the fresh blood, Paul intercepted her arm. The contact shook them both, and as Paul kissed Maggie's hand with tears in his eyes, they felt the unspeakable love that bridged the silence of the night.