David Sanborn rummaged through his closet, a white collared shirt wrinkled and half tucked in to his khaki pants.

“Have you seen my belt?” he asked his wife.

Claire Sanborn carefully plucked her eyebrows, leaning in front of the bathroom mirror. Her face was softened by blush, her brown eyes lined in black. She thought they looked sunken and hollow, vacant.

“No,” she said.

In the narrow bedroom, David surveyed the room, frustrated. His hands rested on his narrow hips, the khaki’s slipping down his waist. He knew his wife had cleaned last week and he knew she must have moved his belt.

“You didn’t put it somewhere while you were cleaning?” he asked.

“No,” she said, a hint of hatred in her low, scratchy voice. David wanted her to quit smoking. “Just wear a different one.”

“I only have one belt.”

Claire hung her head, her dyed blonde bangs falling across her eyes. How could he only have one fucking belt? Wasn’t he supposed to be thirty-three years old?

David stood in the doorway now, looking at his wife of eight years. She cocked her head to the side and forced a smile.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “Just don’t wear a belt, ok?”

He leaned his shoulder against the frame of the door and crossed his arms. “You sure?”

Claire sighed. “Yeah, it’s fine.” It wasn’t.

David waited for a moment then nodded and walked back into the bedroom. He probably won’t iron his shirt, either, Claire thought. And I won’t be able to wear heals because I’m already two fucking inches taller than him. Claire looked back at the mirror. She looked old, the fine wrinkles in the corners of her mouth showing through her makeup, peering back and mocking her. She forced a smiled again and brushed her bangs out of her eyes. She couldn’t help but wonder how she had gotten stuck here.

In the bedroom, David tucked his shirt in, running his hands down the chest of the shirt, trying to straighten out the creases in it. He sensed the silence in the bathroom, could feel the chasm between where he was standing and where she was. David took a deep breath and attempted to cross the gap, walking quietly into the bathroom and sliding his arms gently around his wife’s hips, softly touching her belly through her black dress. He kissed her on the cheek, on the ear, on the back of her head, where the blonde dye had been replaced by brunette roots. She turned in his arms and kissed him briefly, then slipped away.

In the small kitchen downstairs, Leo and Christina Sanborn sat on bar stools, eating macaroni and watching Cartoon Network. Claire walked in, ducking her head at the bottom of the staircase. She kissed both of them on the head.

“How’s the macaroni?”

“Good,” Leo said. Christina merely smiled, her mouth stuffed.

Claire smiled back. “Daddy and I are going out now, we won’t be back until late, so Melissa’s going to have to put you to bed, ok?” The children nodded.

Claire looked over at the small round kitchen table. “Melissa, make sure they’re in bed by nine. If you have any problems, I’ll have my phone on me.”

The stairs creaked and David stepped into the kitchen.

“You ready?” Claire asked.

David nodded. He hugged his kids. “Be good for Melissa, ok guys?” he said.

“Thanks,” Claire said to Melissa.

David retrieved two coats from the closet, handing a long, black woolen one to Claire. He tried to slide it around her shoulders, but she took it from him.

“I can do it myself,” she said.

She slipped into her coat and walked across the kitchen and into the living room, her shoes clicking on the wooden floor. David smiled at the babysitter and followed her. She waited at the front door and they walked out together.

The night was crisp and dry, a sort of cold bitterness lingering in the air. David and Claire Sanborn walked silently down the cracked sidewalk of Ninth Street. At some point, Claire instinctively hooked her left arm through David’s right arm. Darkened row homes passed by, then the colorful streamers and shops of the Italian Market. David passed the produce shop where he bought flowers.

Past the Italian Market, they found an older building on their left, looking about ready to crumble, the brick façade worn from decades of cold winters, an awning protecting the entrance to the building. People milled around in the cold, cigarettes dangling from their mouths, smoke curling over their suits and dresses.

Claire fumbled around in her purse for a cigarette, finally pulling one out between her index finger and thumb. “You want to get our table?” she asked her husband.

“Sure,” David said. He turned away from her before she could light the cigarette and stepped over the threshold into the restaurant, his eyes not ready for the bright lights. The dining room was full, people packed into tiny tables, the walls surrounding them painted with murals of Italian farm lands and beautiful ocean vistas.

“Excuse me, do you have a reservation?”

David turned, caught off guard. “Um, yeah, my wife called. Claire Sanborn.”

The hostess smiled and looked down at her long list of names. Her eyes skimmed the paper, looking it over twice, finally stopping and marking off a name with a pen.

“Follow me Mr. Sanborn.”

David followed the hostess, a pretty young girl with black hair in tight black pants and a flowing white shirt, up a cramped staircase. The second floor was much dimmer than the first, candles lighting each table, but it was just as crowded. The pretty girl turned a corner and led David to a table in the back of the room, near the bar.

“Here you are Mr. Sanborn,” she said, touching his back with her hand and smiling. David smiled back.

“Thank you,” he said. She turned and walked away. David took his coat off and watched her walk, her hips swaying back and forth. He sat down, his chair pressed tightly against a wall that was cracked and had no murals. To his left was a table of four, two older men, brothers maybe, both in blue dress shirts and graying around the temples, and two younger women, their cleavage pouring out of skimpy dresses. The one in the red dress was prettier, David thought, her chest might actually be real.

Claire emerged at the top of the stairs and the pretty hostess pointed her across the room. David waved, mostly at the girl, but his wife saw and waved back, snaking her way through the crowded tables. She already had her coat hanging over her arm and she sat down, setting it on the table next to her.

“How was the smoke?” David ask.

“Good,” she said.

“You should quit,” David said.

“I’ll quit when you get a real job,” she said.

David laughed and looked to the left, at the red dress and her cleavage. “Not having a real job isn’t going to kill me. And besides, I work, I make money.”

“You occasionally paint something and even more occasionally sell it for a little bit of money. What would happen to the kids if I died? What about the mortgage?”

“We’d be fine.”

“Well maybe if I keep smoking, you’ll find out,” she said.

David set his menu down and glared at her.

“I’m sorry, that was out of line,” she said. She didn’t mean it.

A waiter wearing a bow-tie arrived at the table.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’ll have a gin and tonic,” David said.

“Vodka on the rocks,” Claire ordered. The waiter took their drink menus and the couple sat silently for a few moments, pretending to look at their menus, hoping to blend in with the mess of people all around them.

“David,” Claire said. “I’m sorry. I just worry about our kids. I worry about us.”

“No, you worry about us having enough money.”

“Yes,” she said, “I do! David, we’re not twenty anymore. I know you think its shallow and meaningless, but yes, money is important. We have a house, a car, and two children. All that costs money. All those Phillies’ games you like to go to? They cost money.”

“I understand that,” he said. “I work, I make money. I pay for those Phillies’ games with my own money. I paid for that dress you’re wearing.”

“And I appreciate that,” Claire said. “But what else do you pay for? How often do you pay for groceries? How often do you pay when the kids go to the doctors?”

David did not respond.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “I love you, I really do, but I need more of a monetary commitment from you.”

“Or what?” David asked.

“Or nothing,” she said.

“No, you can’t say you need more of a monetary commitment from me and then not have an or what.”

Claire sighed. The waiter returned with their drinks and Claire took a big sip of her vodka. “Can we smoke in here?” she asked.

“Yes,” the waiter said.

Claire smiled and pulled out another cigarette, lighting it and inhaling deeply.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” David said.

“I’m assuming you want veal parm?” Claire said.

“Yeah,” he said. Claire nodded and David walked past the bar to the bathroom. He knocked and got no response, so he opened the door and walked inside. He stopped at the sink and turned it on letting the water run. He removed his glasses and ran his hands through his thinning brown hair, splashing water on his face. The bathroom was cramped and, even though he was barely five foot six, David had to contort his body to sit down. Water dripped from his face onto his khakis and he rubbed furiously to dry them out.

Claire finished her vodka quickly. She reached across the table and sipped from David’s gin and tonic. She hated gin. She ashed her cigarette on the floor, the nicotine and alcohol rushing to her head, coursing through her blood.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” a waiter interrupted. “Are you ready to order?”

“Yes, I believe I am,” Claire said. “I’ll have the four cheese ravioli. My husband,” she pointed to the vacant seat, “will be having the veal parm with spaghetti.”

“Do you want any appetizers?”

“No, I think we’re ok.”

The waiter picked up the menus.

“Actually,” Claire said, “can we have a basket of bread?”

“Of course.”

“And a bottle of merlot?”

“No problem.”

“Thank you,” she said, and the waiter left. She took one last deep drag of her cigarette and dropped it to the ground, snuffing it out with the heal of her shoe. She could see David open the bathroom door and she smiled at him as he sat back down.

“David,” she said, reaching her hand across the table.

“What?” he asked, placing his hands in his lap.

Claire sighed heavily. David could see the fine lines beneath her eyes. When did she get those? he wondered.

“I was going to apologize,” she said.

“Well, thanks,” David said.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I just wish you would give me some fucking credit,” he said.

“Keep your voice down, we’re in public.”

“I know where we are,” he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “I may not make a shitload of money like you, Claire, but I’m not fucking miserable, either. I get the kids up in the morning, I make them breakfast and I wait with Leo for the bus. Every fucking morning. I watch Christina all day, I play with her, I read to her. I wait at the bus stop for Leo to get home, I make them snacks. And you know what? Yeah, sometimes it fucking sucks. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to wake up and make eggs and toast every goddamn morning, or watch the Muppets Show for an hour every day, or peel apples every afternoon. But usually it’s pretty damn ok, and it sure as hell beats sitting in an office all day, leaving my kids with someone I’ve never met before, and not knowing a fucking thing about them.”

Claire was silent across the table, overwhelmed. Overwhelmed with regret, with anger, and she felt unable to contain herself, and for a moment she wanted to reach across the table and slap her husband. Her husband who has no fucking job and blames her for having one. Her husband who’s fucking shorter than her so she can’t wear heels when they go out to dinner. She didn’t hit him though, and her anger subsided, replaced by a longing, an emptiness like a gun shot wound to the stomach.

David Sanborn watched his wife and studied her long face. Her makeup had run off, and he could see how old and tired she looked. He wonders if he looks that old, if he is no longer young anymore. David watched his wife and he felt sorry for her, sorry because he can’t, and maybe never did, make her happy.

“Here’s your bread,” the waiter said politely. David turned, surprised, and took the basket in his hands.

“Thank you,” he said. He didn’t know how long the waiter had been standing there. He could have heard everything, or nothing. David didn’t care. He set the bread down and reached across the table, taking his wife’s hand in his. She was taller than him, but her hands were still much smaller than his, and he cradled them, kissed them. She took them back and wiped her face with her napkin. She had stopped crying.

“Claire,” he said.

“No, it’s ok, David. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not yours, either,” he said.

She tried to smile. “I know.”

She took his hand and kissed it, rubbing his knuckles with her thumb. Then they sat in silence.

The South Street Subway station was barren, the air thick despite the cold outside. David Sanborn sat on a metal bench, staring at the red and white mosaics on the wall, the tiles lit up brightly by fluorescent lights. His wife sat next to him, her hands in his lap, her head resting down on his shoulder. A cigarette rested in David’s fingers, and he exhaled, watching the plume of smoke slowly disintegrate down the darkness of the subway tunnel.

“You sure you want to go?” he asked.

“Yeah, you always tell me about this place and I’ve never been. I want to go,” she said. She looked up at him and he twisted his shoulders and kissed her forehead. Far down the tunnel, a light bounced up and down on the black wall, growing brighter, and a low rumble grew louder.

The orange subway cars of the Broad Street line barreled around the bend, screaming to a halt. Claire and David stood up and waited for the doors to whoosh open. They stepped onto the train and sat down in the first empty seats, the hard plastic grooved from years of wear.

The ride was brief, just one stop, to Walnut and Locust, and normally David walked, but it was cold out and his feet were tired. They got off the train quickly, and Claire followed him up a flight of metal stairs and through a turnstile that looked more like the gate to a fortress. Then they ascended a flight of concrete stairs and found themselves standing on Broad Street, the glowing yellow clock of City Hall towering a few blocks north. It was quarter of eleven.

David and Claire walked down a block, to Sansom Street, and turned right before crossing in front of a green taxi. David skipped up onto the sidewalk, reaching back for his wife’s hand. They passed a brightly illuminated parking garage and then ducked into a small bar on the right, the sign above reading “Jazz, Restaurant, Bar.”

The room was dark and filled with smoke, the walls paneled in wood on the bottom, then painted maroon on top. Wafting in from the back of the bar, soft jazz music rolled over the couple, a sorrowful saxophone wailing over a bass guitar.

“Table for two,” David said to the hostess. She led them to a table close to the stage and lit a small candle between them.

“What do you want to drink?” she asked.

“A Yuengling for me,” David said.

“A cosmo,” Claire said. The waitress scribbled something into a pad and rushed away.

David looked at the stage, a piano sitting against the wall and closest to him. The saxophone player stood in the center, a set of drums behind him, and the bass player, standing and in a tuxedo, stood off to the right. Past the bass player there was an open space of floor, and a few people danced gracelessly to the music, most of the men having long since shed their sport coats.

“This is nice,” Claire said.

“It is,” he said.

“I’m glad you brought me here,” she said.

“Me, too,” he said. Claire reached into her purse and pulled out her pack of cigarettes. The waitress returned with their drinks, the beer golden in a tall glass, the cosmo a shimmering pink, and a group of four people sat down next to David and Claire. Two men, one white and in a black turtleneck, the other black and in a white dress shirt, and two women, one in a purple blouse and jeans, the other in a sultry black top and a short red skirt. David smiled at the one in black and red as she sat down. She had long, curly black hair which cascaded down her neck and over her shoulder blades. She smiled back.

Claire handed her husband a cigarette.

“No, I’m fine,” he said.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I just needed one waiting for the subway.”

“Ok,” she said, putting the cigarette back in her pack.

“Actually, I couldn’t happen to bum one from you?” the black man sitting at the next table asked.

Claire looked over and pulled the cigarette back out.

“Of course,” she said, handing it to him, her fingers slipping by his hand. “I’m Claire.”

The man took the smoke and lit it with a match. “Aaron,” he said. “And this is my friend Kevin, his fiancé Karen, and her friend,” he paused, trying to recall her name.

“Carminda,” she said in a thick Spanish accent.

“I’m David.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Carminda said, and David extended his hand, shaking her gently, under the watchful eyes of his wife. He turned to Claire, taking a swig of his beer. “Do you want to dance, honey?”

She smiled. “Sure.”

David took her hand. “Excuse us,” he said to the party seated next to them. He weaved through a set of tables, leading his wife, and finally reached the dance floor. He spun Claire awkwardly, almost dropping her, and she laughed. She hadn’t laughed all night.

“Are you trying to make that woman jealous?” she said.

“Of course not,” he said, spinning her away from him.

“Good. Because you can’t dance,” she said, sliding back and kissing him. She grabbed his hands and put them around her waist, on the small in her back. He moved them down further, to the curve of her lower back and slid his fingers down her hips. David tried to move his feet in rhythm, but he failed, and eventually Claire led him across the dance floor.

They danced for three songs, the music fading away until they no longer heard it and were simply moving their bodies together. Claire pulled her husband close and David traced the insides of her thighs with his hands, feeling her sweat through the thin black fabric. At one point, she kissed him and ran her hands through his hair. He laughed and playfully grabbed her ass, filled with the type of glee a high school kid has the first time he makes love.

After the third song, David and Claire were interrupted. David’s shirt was saturated with sweat, and he took long, labored breaths.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Aaron said, “but I was wondering if I could have a dance?”

David smiled. “Yeah, I need a bit of a breather. Go ahead, just treat her well.” He winked at Claire. He turned, not watching this man take his wife’s hand. He found his way to the bar and ordered a water. He drank it quickly and went back to his table in the corner, a man now playing on the piano. He sat down, taking a sip of his beer. From across the room, he could see Claire and Aaron dancing harmlessly, her hands resting idly in his.

“You’re a good dancer,” Carminda said, turning to face David and crossing her legs. Kevin and Karen had disappeared.

David faced her, setting his beer down. He could feel sweat dripping down his neck. “Thank you,” he said. “You have a beautiful voice.”

She smiled and her face was beautiful, too; her eyes dark and looking intently at him, her lips rich and moist, her cheeks smooth. There were no creases in the corners of her mouth. She curled her hair behind her ear.

“Thank you,” she said, placing her hand on his knee.

David wanted nothing more than to touch her hand, to graze it slightly with his fingers, to feel how her skin felt against his. He waited for a moment, letting her hand rest on his leg, her weight feeling like almost nothing, her fingers slender, and her nails painted deep red.

Then, he sighed heavily and slid his knee under the table, her hand falling from his knee. She closed her fingers, caressing the inside of her index finger with her thumb. David looked at her longingly.

“Is that your wife?” Carminda asked.

David glanced down, embracing her legs with his eyes. Then he looked up, at her face. She looks so young, he thought.

“Yes,” he said, “she’s my wife.”

Carminda smiled again. “She’s beautiful.”

David laughed, fully and without regret. “Yes, she is.”

Across the room, his wife was still dancing. David watched her and she seemed

light, as if her feet were barely touching the floor. She seemed to float across the room,

her dress following behind, a second late. And as the music built around him, swallowing

him in the melody, the piano gently tapping, the saxophone crooning, David watched,

with pure amazement and joy, this woman, this girl- his wife- gracefully glide across the

dance floor.