No longer finding comfort in food, he slices his spaghetti into bite sized pieces, forks them down mechanically, yawns oxygen. His wife sips missive wine, looks to the street, smokes a little, and waits for his carnal reality, TV. As his recliner tilts back, she exhales air, deflates, dying to exit, relieves herself on the toilet in protest of invisibility, deposits the door key and his Oral-B, as well. She flattens, slips her slim self into the envelope next to the note worded over one page of kitten-pink paper and leaves via the mail-slot waiting for a breath of fresh.