Instead he thought of how he and Shoba had become experts at avoiding each other in their three-bedroom house. He thought of how long it had been since she looked into his eyes and smiled, or whispered his name on those rare occasions they still reached for each other’s bodies before sleeping.
In the beginning he had believed that he and Shoba would get through it all somehow. It was often nearly lunchtime when Shukumar would finally pull himself out of bed and head downstairs to the coffeepot, pouring out the extra bit Shoba left for him, along with an empty mug, on the countertop.
It was seven thirty and the neighborhood was covered in darkness. Shukumar used this excuse to not leave their home; uneven banks of snow lining the sidewalk and people having to walk in single file to pass through narrow trenches.
I'll take a shower before the lights go and then I'll go down
It was the day the notice had informed them about. The lights were going to be gone by eight o'clock.
The lamb won't be done by eight. We may have to eat in the dark.
We can light candles
Shoba unclipped her hair, coiled neatly at her nape during the days, and pried the sneakers from her feet without untying them.
Both prepared for the night. Shoba decided to take a shower while Shukumar cooked their dinner.