She does the supper dishes. She stands at the sink, beautiful despite the grey that's starting to show in her hair, humming slightly, thinking of nothing at all. She is not listening to the radio. She never listens to the radio. This is routine. She dries the dishes, puts them away.
She takes out the mop - this is Tuesday - and mops the kitchen floor, still humming. It is a tune she heard earlier in the day, perhaps in a store somewhere. “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie—”
She moves around the living room, bringing things to order. This is her job. An empty tumbler and a crumpled newspaper sit by the armchair. This is routine. She picks them up along with the ashtray and takes them into the clean kitchen.
While she is standing at the kitchen sink, washing the ashtray, the moon catches her eye.
She goes to bed. Her husband is there, waiting impatiently. This is routine. She runs a hand up his thigh and finds that he is already hard. She bends her head to him and takes his penis in her mouth, listening for the sharp exhalation that is her job evaluation. She is an expert. She swirls her tongue, flicking the tip. She bobs her head and moans a little, using the vibration of her voice for added sensation.
When he comes, she turns her head and, for the first time in her life, she spits over the side of the bed. He doesn't notice.
Afterward, she gets up without a sound, packs a small bag, gets in her car, and pulls out of the driveway.
It's her fifty-fifth birthday. She's taking early retirement.