Heart Troubles by Stephen; Birmingham

doing nothing more poetic than waving a childish farewell to the sun. “I can’t wait for it to be midnight,” she said, and he wondered if one of his mistakes hadn’t been marrying a girl six years younger than he.
    â€œUh-huh,” he said. He drove faster. “I’m sure the Parkers’ party won’t last that long.”
    â€œRut if it does,” she asked, “shall we announce it to everyone?”
    â€œSure,” he said. “Why not? What will you say?”
    She turned to him. “I’ll say,” she said pleasantly, “that a year ago today, September twenty-first, I promised my husband solemnly—after he’d begged me for days and weeks and months to promise him solemnly—I’d stick it out for another year.”
    â€œI see,” he said. “And what if they ask you what you’re going to do now?”
    â€œI’ll say that because absolutely nothing has changed and, having stuck out my year through thick and thin, mostly thin, I’ve decided to go free, as free as a bird. Off on my own, to find out what the good life really is like. And that tomorrow morning will see me packing my bags.”
    â€œVery good,” he said. “Very well put.”
    â€œThank you,” she said.
    They drove in silence. He had forgotten that promise, that bargain, or whatever it was they had made a year ago. Except that he had not really forgotten, only pushed it back into a little mental closet he kept specifically for old, unpleasant pacts, contracts he had been forced to sign, things he had had to compromise about or beg for. Of course he remembered it now though he had not remembered the exact date. It was like her to remember the date, and it was also like her not to have mentioned it to him since then or let him know she had been counting the days, as if the period were a prison sentence. It was funny, really, to realize that for the last three hundred and sixty-five days she had been quietly going about the ritual of living but biding her time.
    â€œHow cute of you to remember.”
    She laughed softly. “I haven’t had much else to think about.”
    After a moment he said, “You know, I really thought things were going pretty well.”
    â€œI’m sure you did,” she said. “Oh, look, Hugh! Look at the sun now.”
    He looked. Only a bright tip showed, and the sky above it was Chinese red. “Pretty,” he said, looking back at the road.
    â€œDon’t drive so fast.”
    â€œWe’re going to be late as it is.”
    â€œI wish it weren’t the Parkers. I hate the Parkers.”
    â€œThat’s right. I’d forgotten you hate the Parkers. It’s very helpful, darling, having you hate the Parkers, since you know he’s considering a script of mine.”
    â€œI know,” she said. “But that’s been one of my troubles all along. I’ve never been able to like people I utterly despise. Pomposity and arrogance I think I could forgive him, even when he tries to kiss me, if he didn’t try to do it in such a pompous, arrogant way.”
    â€œWell, I’m sure Ed Parker will enjoy the little announcement you’re planning to make at midnight.”
    â€œYes,” she said. “But if he should appear too interested, I shall have to add that Ed Parker, alas, is not for me.”
    â€œYou’re doing very well,” he said. “You should have been the writer and not I.”
    â€œA number of people have said that somebody else should be the writer and not you.”
    â€œWhy, thank you, Lucille! You’re always so very, very sweet.”
    â€œDon’t mention it.”
    â€œTell me,” he said. “All those days and weeks and months when I supposedly begged you to stick it out another year—and frankly I don’t remember begging you quite that long—what made you decide to stay?”
    â€œDon’t you