“The shoes aren’t right.”
          “Hm?”
          “The shoes, these shoes,” she said.  “They’re all wrong with this dress.”
          He glanced over at her.  “They’re fine.”
          It was the first time he’d looked up in twenty minutes.  She was standing in front of the mirror, her entire collection of shoes scattered in hurricane-aftermath fashion around her feet.  He was sitting on the edge of the bed with his book.  Like always.  Like Sunday-morning-through-Saturday-night, one-break-to-watch-the-six-o’clock-news, never-bother-to-find-a-real-job—just like that.  There was a book in his hands when he turned off the light at exactly 11:30 every night and when he woke up at 8:00 the next morning.  She swore he’d read every book in the house at least six times through.
          She kicked off the pair of red heels that she’d never really liked in the first place and walked over to his side of the bed, kneeling at his feet and resting her arms across his lap.
          “You promised to take me out tonight, you know.”  She had extracted the promise from him late the night before, after the book was laid aside, the lights were turned out, and he was half asleep.
          “Mm.”
          She pulled the book out of his hands and laid it face down on the bed.  Something by Salinger.  Salinger was his favorite, though she never understood why.  Dry as dust, that one, and not an ounce of romantic intrigue.
          “For our anniversary.  You didn’t forget, did you?”
          “No.”  His eyes flicked back and forth across her forehead and the tip of her nose, but never managed to settle anywhere in between.
          “You didn’t forget?”
          “No.”
          “Do you love me more than those books of yours?”
          “Of course.”
          “Even Salinger?”
          He put a stiff hand on top of her head and made an awkward attempt to stroke her hair.  “Even Salinger.”
          She smiled ever so slightly—just enough to make him try to smile in return—and stood up.  Walked over to the closet and pushed the piles of shoes behind the door with the side of her foot.  Went into the bathroom.  Took off her earrings and laid them inside her jewelry case.  Took off her dress.
          Wrapped in the folds of a silk nightgown, she came back into the bedroom and gently closed the door.  She took the book by Salinger from the edge of the bed, still face down, and marked his place—page 117, was it?  Yes, of course that was it.  She crawled into bed and leaned carefully across to put the book on his nightstand, right next to his alarm clock, which was set for exactly 8:00am.  Just where he liked it.
          11:30pm. She switched off the light.  After a few minutes, when she knew he would be just starting to fall asleep, she rolled over toward his side of the bed.
          “It’s our anniversary tomorrow, you know,” she whispered, her lips brushing up against his pillow.  “You’ll take me out somewhere, won’t you?  Somewhere nice, so I can wear that new dress you bought me? Maybe we could even go dancing, just like we used to.  You’ll take me, won’t you?  Promise?”

          And his pillow, as silent, as cold, as empty as it had been for 17 years, gave a promise just as cold and empty as it had given every night before.