The gentle lull of the television can be heard from the living room as you rub sleep from your eyes, quietly padding around the dark house nightgown clad. The grandfather clock in the hall reads 12:00 am— a matter only visible to you via the copper colored shimmer of an aged short hand pointing to an even more aged roman numeral on the clock face.

Somehow you’ve found yourself in the threshold of the living room, seemingly attracted to the staticky light and sound of the television like a moth to a flame. It’s a black and white film, “Casablanca,” you reckon— the melodramatic scene of Ingrid and Humphrey sharing a kiss.

And there sits your beloved husband, Vincent (semi-dorsal), surrounded in his own haze of cigarette smoke as he lounges in the plush chair before the television. His tie is loose, brow pinched in concentration.