She opened the fridge and took out a jar of pickles. Rubbing the condensation off her fingers onto her jeans, she prized the lid off and pulled out a spear.

Crunching away, she rifled through the crisper drawer, but didn't find anything appealing. She noticed there was still paint on the back of her hand, but she was too tired to rub it away.

The house was quiet, except for the snoring of her husband, which carried through the house. She was beginning to feel like she heard more from him when he was asleep then when he was awake.

She hadn't been sleeping well. In fact, she was awake for so many hours at night that it was like was living out extra days every week.

There was a rich inner life, a secret life that she lived alone while everyone else in the house was asleep. This made her both happy and sad. For the most part, she enjoyed it, enjoyed having 5 or 7 hours to herself at night to stretch canvas and create landscapes.

Her topography was changing though. Soon, they'd know she was eating for two.