"Fine," she said, smiling. "A porch with no rocking chairs until we are at least 40."
"We can do that."
"And maybe a dog."
"One dog?"
"Two. So the first one doesn't get lonely."
I leaned back on my elbows and grinned at her. "You have thought about this."
"I think about everything."
There it was again, that strange dip in her voice. Like the words meant more than she wanted them to.
Before I could ask, she leaned over and kissed me. "I love you, Jasper."
"I love you, too, Nina."
Those were the last words I heard from my wife.
When I woke up the next morning, her side of the bed was empty.
At first, I thought she had gone to get breakfast.
The curtains were half open, and pale morning light stretched across the carpet. Her shoes were still by the chair. Her makeup bag sat near the sink. Her wedding dress hung from the closet door like a ghost.
