I finish washing the dirty dishes in the sink and look back up at the clock for the hundredth time. Monie left a little after 1:00 p.m. and it’s well after 5:00. I’m starting to get concerned. She wasn’t in the greatest frame of mind when she left. I try to tamp down my overactive imagination from spinning into visions of her broken body lying in a twisted car wreck or her walking into the lake like Virginia Woolf, her gaze dull and lifeless as the water rises up over her chin. Why are things like this the first thing we think of when our significant others are late coming home? As a therapist, it’s always intrigued me how the human brain operates like this.
I wipe my hands on the towel, consoling myself she’s probably at Pizza Hut waiting for our pie to come out of the oven, but my gaze
