The woman presents the man with a lawyer's letter. The letter says this is how it's going to be. Deep inside the house. In the bottom of the house heavy boxes of books sigh under their own weight. And creak as the pages try to turn as the stories inside them try to get free. From the top of the built in bookshelves one book after another throws itself on the floor in despair saying what have we done. While an open notebook begins scribbling inside its own pages to document the breakdown of the union.
The man presents the woman with a handwritten letter that says this is not how it's going to be. I'll make it be the way I want it to be.
Outside there is the sound of something creaking beyond the window or a crying. Inside the bed it is a good time to stop breathing to try to tell if the noise is really coming from outside the window or from inside your own body. From your mouth or from your nose.
On the second floor many cats begin running back and forth chasing shadows and the feet or the imaginary feet of the man and the woman. Where they stand facing off and then pacing, off, back and forth on the linoleum, the puke colored linoleum etched with seven and eleven years of circle walking, trying to determine how to put this everything to its own miserable end.