My Husband Laughed at the Anniversary Dinner I Spe…

He pushed off the door frame and headed toward the stairs, scratching his stomach as he went. “Work meeting at seven. Don’t forget to blow out all those ridiculous candles.”

I looked at the dining room from where I stood: the candles still burning steadily, the eucalyptus wilting at the edges, the good china sitting in dirty stacks, waiting for my hands.

“Actually,” I murmured, mostly to myself, “I think I’ll leave them burning. I want to watch something beautiful turn to ash.”

He was already halfway up the stairs. He didn’t hear me.

Maybe that was for the best. I rinsed my hands, dried them on a towel, and walked back to the dining room. The scene looked like a still from a movie—a movie I’d directed and starred in for seven years, never realizing I wasn’t the protagonist.

I was props. I was set dressing. I was the soft lighting and the background music.