Blankets knotted under her, bunched tight like she hadn’t moved in a while. Chico lay circled like rat on the sofa, his tiny body smaller than the pink makeup bag resting on Kim’s lap.

“Move,” said Brian to the rat dog.

Chico uncurled, stood on his skinny legs, and barked to claim his spot. After each bark, his entire body shivered. Brian would’ve smiled, but he wasn’t in the mood.

“Chico, baby, come,” Kim said.

He leapt off the couch and sat beside her, sniffing at the nail polish brush in her hand. Kim’s foot stayed arched toward her, calf taut, the brush in one hand and the bottle in the other.

The TV filled the room. Two women arguing on some show, voices sharp, fast. One of them waved a phone, long nails flashing as she shook it like she might throw it through the screen.

“How much longer?”

“Sheila and Daniela are about to get into it.”

“How long, Kim?”

“Five minutes. Maybe ten.”

“You said that twenty minutes ago.”

She shrugged, not looking at him. “You could pay attention, you’d like it.”

“It’s garbage.”

Her eyes flicked to him. “Jesus, Brian.”

“I’ve been waiting all week to watch the game, and instead I’m stuck listening to housewives scream about lunch.”

She snorted. “At least something’s happening. Better than your game, where nothing happens for an hour except ads.”

Brian let out a loud sigh.

She twisted the brush back into the bottle. “You know what? I’m taking Chico for a walk. Watch your damn game. ”

“God, why do you have to be such a brat?”

She stared at him. “Wow. I’m the brat?”

“I pay for this apartment. This couch. That TV. And I’d like to use one of them for one hour. Is that too much to ask?”

She stood abruptly. “You’re such a goddamn martyr, Brian.”

“And you turn everything into a war.”

“Yeah?” She grabbed the edge of the table. “Then I’ll leave the battlefield.”

“Good.”

She turned and walked to the bedroom. Didn’t slam the door. Just closed it.

He grabbed his keys and left.

Brian drove around town for an hour, then another. On the highway and off, through streets he didn’t need to be on, until the sky went dark. He sat in his truck for a second. Ran a hand through his hair. Pressed his forehead to the wheel. Then he stepped out.

The pile of blankets was still where she’d left it. Chico rose stiffly on three legs, limped to the arm of the couch. Brian scratched his neck and gently patted his apple-shaped head.

Brian settled onto the sofa, Chico curled in his lap. He turned on the television, scrolling until he found her show.

Two women sat at a luncheon, talking about a man named Bobby.

The silence stretched, broken only by the television. Then Brian spoke.

“Your show’s not garbage,” he said softly. “I was just tired. Frustrated.”

He stroked Chico’s neck.

“You’re not a brat, babe.”

He looked toward the urn. Where he’d placed it two weeks ago after the funeral. Where it sat every day. The silence between them louder now.

“I wish I’d said I love you instead.”