Moon-Dusted Floors

The house was settling in for the night, groaning its old bones. Sarah stacked the last plate in the dishwasher, the machine’s hum a dull throb against the quiet. Mark was in the living room, a silhouette against the blue glow of the television, a sports game he wasn’t really watching. They’d barely spoken since dinner, not out of malice, just a tired sort of silence that had become another piece of the furniture, heavy and always there. She dried her hands on a dishtowel that had seen better days, smelling faintly of lemon cleaner and the chili they'd eaten.

He usually said goodnight before she went to bed, a mumbled thing from the couch, sometimes a quick peck on the cheek if she leaned in. Tonight, nothing. Just the flickering screen painting his face in momentary, artificial light. His shoulders seemed tighter than usual, pulled inward. She hesitated in the archway, her throat feeling a little dry. A million unspoken things hung in the air, a thick, invisible curtain between them. She wanted to ask, 'What's wrong?' but the words felt too big, too much work. So she just went to bed, the mattress sighing as she settled in.

Sleep didn't come. The wind outside picked up, rattling the old windowpane. She listened to the house, to the faint, steady sound of Mark's breathing from the living room, still awake. A knot tightened in her stomach. This wasn't right, this quiet. This distance. After twenty years, you knew the cadence of the house, and his silence was off-key. She swung her legs out of bed, the cool floorboards a shock against her bare feet.

She found him on the back porch, not in the living room. Leaning against the railing, his back to the house, head tilted up at the sky. The moon, a fat, white coin, hung high, casting long, stark shadows across the yard, turning the familiar space into something alien. He hadn't heard her, or pretended not to. The screen door creaked shut behind her, a small, sharp sound in the night. He flinched then, shoulders stiffening, but didn't turn around.

“Can’t sleep,” she said, her voice raspy, a little thin. She walked up beside him, leaned on the railing too. The night air was sharp, smelled of damp earth and pine. He grunted, a noncommittal sound. She could feel the tension radiating off him, a low thrumming vibration. She watched the shadows of the oak tree stretch and twist, like phantom limbs reaching. What was he seeing out there? What was he carrying?

“Mark,” she started, softer this time, a plea more than a question. “What is it? You’ve been… gone, all day.” He took a slow breath, held it, let it out in a long, shuddering sigh. His gaze was still fixed on the moon. “The merger, at work,” he finally said, his voice flat, rough around the edges. “They’re… cutting departments. Mine’s on the list. Not definite, but… likely.”

It hit her, a cold splash. His job. After thirty years with the same company. The weight of it, the sudden, sharp fear for their future, for everything they'd built. For a second, anger flared. He’d kept this from her, let her stew in the general gloom. Then it faded, replaced by something heavier, a deep ache. She looked at his profile, etched in moonlight, the worry lines deeper than she remembered. He hadn't wanted to burden her, of course. That was Mark, always absorbing the blows alone.

“Oh, Mark,” she whispered, reaching out without thinking, her hand finding his on the cold metal railing. His fingers were stiff at first, then softened, turning to grip hers, tight. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, a small, familiar comfort. “Why didn’t you say anything?” He finally turned his head, his eyes, dark pools in the moonlight, meeting hers. “Didn’t want to. Didn’t want to make it real.”

They stood there for a long time, the only sounds the chirping of crickets and the rustle of leaves in the wind. The silence now was different, not a wall but a shared space. The moon moved, slowly, steadily, and the shadows shifted on the ground, stretching, shrinking, reforming. It was like they were standing still, but everything around them was in motion. All the unspoken fears, the hidden anxieties of their years together, felt present, swirling around them in the cool night air. The shadow of his job loss, the shadow of their aging bodies, the shadow of time itself.

He squeezed her hand. “I just… don’t know what to do.” His voice cracked. She didn't have answers either. What could she say? It would be hard. They would figure it out, somehow. But the comfort wasn’t in the words; it was in the saying, in the sharing of it. In the breaking of the quiet. She stepped closer, sliding her arm around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder. He smelled of laundry detergent and something else, something uniquely Mark, something solid and familiar.

Slowly, without a word, he shifted his weight. He took her other hand, and in the small, moon-dusted space of the porch, they began to sway. Not really dancing, not with music, just a gentle, hesitant rock from side to side. Her head still on his shoulder, his chin resting on her hair. Their feet shuffled on the wooden planks, stirring up dust motes that glittered for an instant in the pale light. Moving with the shadows, not against them, just feeling each other’s weight, each other’s presence, in the vast, indifferent night.

He pulled her a little tighter, a low, ragged sound escaping him, almost a sob, almost a laugh. "What are we doing?" he mumbled into her hair. She didn't answer, just kept moving, one step, then another, the floorboards groaning a slow, quiet tune beneath their worn-out shoes. The moon watched them, a silent witness to the messy, imperfect rhythm of two lives trying to keep time.