Steven was in bed when Jennifer came in the room.

“Steven? Honey?”

He did not answer. He heard her close to the bed. She might want to talk about it. Again.

It had been two months since Jennifer went into early labor. There was a problem with

her placenta, and she’d had a Cesarean. Charlotte was not breathing when they pulled her out. The nurses rushed her to the NICU, but the doctor pronounced her dead a few hours later. They had not talked about it since. They had tried once, but it had not gone well.

“Steven? Are you asleep?” She shook his shoulder gently, but he did not respond. She stood there a moment, tucking the blanket in around his shoulder. Then he heard her sigh and walk toward the door. 

“I’m not,” he said. “What is it?”

He opened his eyes as she stopped. The hallway light was on. She was wearing her nightgown and slippers. 

“Have you looked outside?” she said. “At the sky.”

“What’s wrong with the sky?” he asked.

She stepped back into the room. “It’s pink,” she said. “The sky has a line of pink.”

He raised onto his elbow and turned toward the window. He pulled the curtain back and looked out. The sky was clear, and the stars were out. But over the trees, just behind the fence line, there was a band of pink sky below the dark blue—the pink you see in cotton candy, the pink of a new stick of gum.

“Well, what do you think?” she said. “Isn’t that something?” 

“Yeah.”

He let go of the curtain and lay back down. He turned over onto his side away from her. But he did not close his eyes. He lay there for a while, focused on the window. He could not make sense of the pink in the sky. It was as if part of the sunset remained, as if the color tore through the sky.
She walked to the bed and sat down at the edge. “It must mean something,” she said. “Maybe it’s a good sign. Maybe it’s a bad sign.”

He said nothing. He kept his eyes on the window. Then she shifted her weight, and when he glanced over his shoulder, she was still there, watching the pink light.

“Do you remember that time we painted Charlotte’s nursery, Steven? When the paint got all over your hair,” she said. “The whole bathtub was pink—

“Can’t you leave me alone, Jen?” he said. “I don’t want to talk.”

“When do you want to talk, then?” 

He did not answer. He stayed turned away from her. 

She inched a little closer to him on the bed. Then she put her hand on his hip and ran her fingers down his leg. “I wish you’d want to talk now,” she whispered. 

He sighed deeply as he reached down and grabbed her hand. 

He could feel how small it was and how cold. He tightened his grip until he felt the bones of her fingers. Then he shoved it away. He rolled onto his back and stared at her with a blank and tired expression. 

“Don’t,” he said.

She shifted on the edge of the bed, glancing at her hand. “Don’t what?” she said, her voice sharp. “Don’t talk? Don’t breathe? Tell me what I’m supposed to do, Steven.”

“Just don’t,” he said, and shut his eyes. “That’s all.”

“That’s all?” she repeated, looking down at him. “That’s all you have to say?”

He did not answer. He pulled the blankets up to his chin.

“You’re so unbelievable, Steven! You know that?” She threw her hands up. “Seriously. It’s like I’m talking to a wall.”

He kept his eyes shut and tried to block out her voice. He thought about the sky outside. About turning his head to look at it. 

“Are you even listening? Hello?” She tossed the blankets to the floor. “I’m right here, Steven.”

He did not move. He lay there as if he were alone in the house. He thought about how long the pink would stay. Or if it would be gone by morning.

She gripped his shoulder and shook him hard. “Look at me,” she said. “Look at me right now.”

“Jesus.” He rubbed his face. He looked at her and said, “I don’t want to talk to you. I’m not going to talk. Leave me alone, Jen. Just get away from me.”

“Fine,” she said, but she did not move. She stayed at the edge of the bed as if waiting for him to say something, but he didn’t. He lay there with his eyes lowered. She turned her head and looked toward the window. She watched the sky for a moment. 

Then Jennifer stood. She reached down and picked up the blankets. She folded them and laid them back on the bed. She went to the coat hanger and took her jacket. She put it on and moved to the door. She held the doorknob and said, “Steven… We need to talk. We really do. But I’m going out there now.”

Steven had no intention of going anywhere. He watched Jennifer pull the door shut. Then he turned toward the window and looked out. The pink line was different. It seemed to stretch across the trees; it seemed to move. Like a worm. He closed his eyes and looked again. It was working its way toward the end of the neighborhood. Over the chimneys of all the houses. But the windows were dark. No one else was awake to see it. He stayed there for quite a while. He watched the sky change. Then he thought about Jennifer. And how far she could have gone. If she could see it the same way.

He turned away from the window and looked at the door. He shook his head. He knew he couldn’t stay inside. He had to see where she had gone. He looked at the window again. The pink sky was still moving. At last he got up, put on his shoes, and his jacket. He went to the door and placed his hand on the doorknob. He stood there, waiting for something to happen. But nothing did. Then he turned the knob and went out.

###

It was dark outside and the air was cold. The streetlight was tall and stood against the sky. It gave off a pale light that made the asphalt shine. He looked for Jennifer, but he did not see her. He walked to the sidewalk and checked the street and the yards on each side. Nothing. He pulled up his collar. He put his hands in his jacket and looked at the sky. The pink light no longer stretched from left to right. It was spreading from all sides, pulsing outward and upward like a steady, beating heart. He stood there for a long moment, watching it beat against the sky. He did not understand what he was seeing. He did not know what else to do.

He took a deep breath of cold air. He cracked his fingers in his pockets. Then he walked a few steps onto the sidewalk. The concrete was cold under his shoes. No cars passed. No dogs barked. It was ten o’clock. The neighborhood was quiet. The lights of the houses were turned off, and their windows reflected nothing but the expanding light. There was enough to see everything in the yard—the plants, the chairs, the mats. But nothing moved. There were no shadows. Everything lay in that pink light. He thought about how far he had to go. What he would say when he saw Jennifer. He kept walking. 

He came to the end of the street. There was a large open field straight ahead where more houses were going to be built and the street turned to the right. For almost a block, the field sat empty on one side and there was only a single dark house on the other. He walked farther and turned left. He and Jennifer had been living here for quite some time. But it was only now, under this pink light, that he noticed this street. He looked down the street as far as the light reached. There was an elementary school. Beyond it was a park and a basketball court. The street opened into a neighborhood of houses. 

Then he saw her. Jennifer stood by the school crosswalk. She was looking up at the pink sky. Her mouth was slightly open. It was no longer just spreading. The light pulled itself across the remaining patches of dark blue and began to curve, following the contour of the Earth. It bent down toward the houses and the trees as if trying to touch the ground. It was enveloping everything now. It moved like a slow hand closing over the top of the world. He walked to her. He opened his mouth to say something. But nothing came out. He was amazed to have found her at all, and at the same time moved and ashamed. In this quiet, pink backdrop, there was nothing left to do but speak. He cleared his throat. He swallowed. 

“Jennifer,” he called out.

She did not seem to hear him. She kept looking at the sky.

He called her name again. Nothing. He stepped off the sidewalk and onto the pavement of the crosswalk. He reached out. He put his hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him.

Her eyes were wet. She let out a short breath.

“Steven.”

They stood there a moment and looked at each other. They did not move. He watched her face in the pink light. It made her hair look silvery and soft against her skin. He could see the bridge of her nose, the tear tracks on her cheeks, shining. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I am. I really and truly am. I’ve thought and thought about it, and I’m sorry I was so mean to you.”

“I know. I’m sorry too.”

“I had the chance,” he said, “I just stood there. I didn’t do anything. I should have said something. I should have at least held your hand. At least that.”

“It’s all right. It’s all right now.”

He cried. He did not have any more words. He pulled her to him and held her, and she put her face against his jacket. Then she began to cry. He could feel her shaking, and his own breathing came hard. He held her tight and did not let go. 

“I was empty,” he said. “I was so empty after she was gone. I couldn’t even—” He paused. The words caught in him.

“I couldn’t, I couldn’t believe it, that’s all. I just couldn’t.” 

She squeezed his shoulder. Then she raised her head and looked past him. The street had stopped being a street. The sky was no longer a sky. Everything had become one continuous surface of pink light, as if the world had been repainted from the inside out. It had come down off the peaks of the roofs and settled into the crevices and the gaps under the parked cars. It had changed the color of the moon and illuminated the dark branches of the trees and the fallen leaves on the ground. It had changed the world. 

“Look at that,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He looked up. 

“It is,” he said, “the first beautiful thing I’ve seen in a long time.”

He took her hand and held it. He squeezed her fingers. They stood like that for a while, watching the pink and not talking. It shifted slowly across their jackets and the pavement at their feet. From time to time, he rubbed his thumb across her knuckles. 

Finally, he spoke, “Do you want to go back?” 

She shook her head. “Not yet,” she said.

She took her hand away. She moved his arm and wrapped it around her. She leaned into him and crossed her arms, curling her fingers around the sleeves of her jacket. They stood there a while longer, letting the light settle around them like a blanket. 

“When we get home, Steven,” she said, her voice softening. “I want you to hold me. I want you to talk to me. I want you to kiss me.” 

He did not say anything. He did not have to. They looked at each other.

She put her hand on his face and pulled his head down. She parted her lips and kissed him. He shut his eyes and felt the heat of her breath. The pink light stayed on them. 

Edited by Yen Nhi Hoang