We were discussing vacations plans—I wanted to fly to Tahiti, she was leaning more towards the Caribbean—tossing our ideas back and forth from different rooms. After showering together, I’d gone into the bedroom and started rummaging through drawers for a shirt and pants, she stayed in the bathroom.

“That’s why Tahiti would be a more fulfilling vacation, sweetheart.” I remember saying, yanking a pant sleeve over my leg, concluding a long-winded, colorful monologue on the island’s history. I tucked the brochure into my pocket after reading it off.

Confident I’d convinced her with my plagiarized spiel, I waited patiently. Whenever I brought her to the dark side (i.e., my side) — whether pizza type, movie choice, or animal name — she normally gave me an exhaustive sigh, followed with “All right, babe.”

But a couple minutes passed. She didn’t say anything. I heard noise coming from the bathroom. It was faint, but I could hear it. Something in my gut told me I wasn’t supposed to hear it, but I did.

I shook my head, figured she was only digesting all the information I poured on her head. I was willing to accept her silence as conformity.

I buttoned up my plaid shirt. “So, we should probably call that travel agent back sometime this week.”

Nothing.

I turned around, peered out to the hallway. The bathroom door was ajar. Shower was off, the cabinet fluorescent was buzzing its usual tune as it struggled to stay lit. I felt a billow of steam creep out and brush my face.

“Honey?”

I walked out the room and into the hall. Crept up to the bathroom door. I don’t know why I did that. Ever been in a situation where your body reacts before your brain does? When it senses danger long before your synapses can fire off? It wants to protect you, even when you don’t realize you need protecting. My body got low and traveled tight against the wall. Don’t argue with me, I imagined it saying. And keep quiet.

I got to the door, then slowly craned my head around and shot my eyes through the small crack. My wife was sitting at the edge of the tub, wrapped in a towel. Her legs folded. She was staring emptily toward the door, like something was behind it, something just on the other side of where I was.

I saw a hand protrude into the small opening. A pale hand. It had a thousand veins scribbled across its skin. Fingers too long they extended pass the crack in the door. There was a white card clutched in its slimy palm. My wife jutted her neck forward, squinting.

“I’m not sure yet, Alan.” she said.

A loud hiss rang out, like a rattlesnake was in there. Then the card was dropped, another promptly put in its place. My wife cleared her throat.

“I—I mean…all right, babe.”