Zoë loved this moment of the day. Sliding her feet between the smooth sheets - only cotton but 230 thread count and washed a dozen times - and lying back on the firm mattress with a sigh. She listened for the usual sounds; her husband's soft snore, the ticking of the antique clock at the bottom of the stairs, and the low rhythmic pulsing of her son's radio - muffled by the doors between - playing a teenager's cacophonic lullaby.

    Tired but not exhausted, relaxed but not asleep, a time apart from the rest of the day, one in which to review the passage of the day just ending, reflect on life's lessons (wasn't there always one of those?), and rehearse for the challenges of the next.

    She swallowed a fragment of meat, loosened but not eliminated by her bedtime brushing, and finally freed by the worried attentions of her tongue.

    The pork had been stringy from being frozen too long. She needed one of those markers to date the butcher's paper wrapping. They hung, conveniently, above the freezer bags at the grocery store. She'd almost bought one several times, only to change her mind. She could probably find the same darn thing at the Dollar-Saver for half as much, if she ever remembered to look for them. Just buy one, Zoë told herself - then put the marker out of her mind.

    She had to remind Randy to clear his homework off the kitchen table before calling his girl. Those conversations lasted hours if she - or Malonda's mom - didn't yank the plug. How could her baby have another woman? Even if that woman was still a girl?

    She hoped that Kev had given the boy the 'sex-talk'. As much as she disapproved, and even if the giving might promote the deed, she knew a box of condoms and a demonstration of their use was part of the father-son dialogue. Her husband's other boy (now a young man) had recently confided that, after Dad peeled the latex off, he'd peeled the banana and eaten it. Odd that Mitch remembered that part so clearly - and funny too. Still, he'd survived the teenage hornies without becoming a parent so maybe the speech worked - or maybe there was a subliminal impact watching the banana get bitten.

    Bananas. They needed some.

    They'd been in the produce department when she learned about the layoffs. Kev's job was safe, but he'd had to pick up extra hours and now she had to grocery shop alone on Friday evenings. Zoë missed the leisurely stroll up and down the aisles that had been their routine. They browsed the shelves like a couple of old people, checking every new item and dented can. Other times, like kids, they'd play football in the paper goods aisle, hiking the t.p. and passing it the length of the store.

    Sometimes they'd go somewhere else to shop, just for fun. Kev would bellow a question, "What size Kotex, Daisy Mae? Trickle or gusher?" or she'd call out, "Should I get the extra large can of jock spray, Cletus?"

    They embarrassed Randy. Well, paybacks can be hell, she thought with a snicker.

    Paybacks. Paychecks. She hated banking in the morning before work, but getting up (and getting moving) early on Saturday was worse. She mentally searched her purse for the deposit slip she'd need to deposit their paychecks.

    The dog, dreaming something scary from her puppy-hood, growled and barked frantically for a minute. Zoë heard her boy murmur, "Good girl. It's okay." She could picture him rolling over on his sagging bed to scratch the soft floppy ears of his old buddy. Why did the dog have to sleep in the bed? It was a wonder Randy didn't have fleas. She'd known that battle was lost (and, thus, she put up only token resistance) when Sara wandered into their yard, house, lives, and (one anyway) bed to stay, many years ago, but Zoë had insisted that she stayed on top of the blankets. She'd won that fight - mostly. Sometimes selective blindness was a good idea.

    There was another thing to see about. That bed. Old springs, old pillows, threadbare sheets, and ragged blankets. Randy refused the new ones, preferring the '101 Dalmatians' from his childhood to the plain blue ones she'd bought and washed a dozen times before slipping them on the pancake thin mattress. The boy would strip the bed during the night and sleep on the bare ticking rather than have 'those scratchy things' touch his princess-and-the-pea delicate skin.
    Maybe a new frame with a better mattress would induce him to accept new bedding. More likely, the weird kid would drag the old one back in from the curb or sleep on the floor.

    Kev had picked out a good mattress though she'd sworn a blue streak when none of her old sheets would fit the deeper padding. In time, she'd gotten used to scooting up onto the bed instead of sitting down on it. Zoë had to perch on the edge, with the precise balance of an Olympic gymnast, to pull on her socks but there was no denying the comfort of his choice.

    The subtle scent of fabric softener clung to the bedspread and she tucked her arms under the top fold, hugging herself. The kitchen clock chimed in its muted nighttime mode. Her husband burbled and the hushed rock and roll played on. The sheets cocooned her legs and the pillow cradled her head.

    Ah! 'I love my bed,' she groaned with a smile of contentment. Praising her bed turned into a silent litany that wound through her mind in ever-looser spirals. Away.

    It wasn't a prayer exactly - just acknowledgement or giving credit for all her small blessings to 'whom it may concern'.

    'Thank you for good things like husbands and sons, bananas and cotton sheets, dogs' ears and condoms,' she thought as relaxed became nearly asleep.

    'And God?' Zoë added, as 'nearly' awake slipped toward 'all the way' asleep, freeing her consciousness to float weightless above the dark plain waiting for dreams like a hot-air balloon awaits a launching at the cusp of day's bright dawn. A journey into the unknown, good or bad, but one breathlessly anticipated, nonetheless.

    'For this day, and for all my days... Thank you.'