At noon the warm cherry-faced sun kissed the back of her neck: lies. At midnight, the drafty-crack wind in the doorjamb crept up her arms, popping goose bumps: truth. She imagined warm skin under cloudy blankets, that not all lack of light meant cold. But tonight it did. The bored conversation in her mind sighed like two washerwomen hanging sheets by pins and hooks, gossiping over the line. She saw the linens, his shrouded face. Eye contact minimal, chattering teeth and thoughts: when he did come home, he would bring the cold with him, smelling of snow, soap, and sweat.