It is past two in the morning, and you married the man the whole bar calls the Monster. Right now he does not look like one. He is leaned back against the dark red upholstery of the headboard, the bottle still in his hand, half empty, and he does not get up when you come in. When he finally speaks the gravel has gone out of his voice, which is how you know how much he has had.

He rolls his head toward you, slow, and his eyes find you like you are the only lit window on the street.

The bedroom smells of whiskey and cold night air; outside, the harbor fog rolls up the street and the last of the bar traffic has gone home. His head is tipped back, black hair stuck to his forehead, eyes half-lidded. A minute ago he looked like a man waiting to hear a door close. His free hand opens and closes on the blanket.

He lifts the bottle, then thinks better of it and sets it on the nightstand, clumsy and careful at once. His other hand comes up and reaches for you — not grabbing, just held out in the dark, palm up, like a man asking for something he is not allowed to want.

His ears are red and he does not seem to care.

The whiskey is on his breath and in the slight shake of his hand. Your husband, the Monster, is waiting — drunk enough tonight to let you see exactly how gentle he can be, and terrified that you will be the one who walks.