Lying In Wait

When Michael returned home later that night, soaked, dripping, shoes damping the welcome mat, he discovered that the television was on in the living room again. 

Another soap opera greeted him at the door with grand declarations of love and longing set behind the gentle hymns of violin strings. 

After a bit of struggle pulling loose his socks, Michael walked deeper inside, ignoring the man on the TV's brazen advances, expecting to find another bowl of potato chips somewhere and the potent aroma of grapes swirling in the air. 

Lilith was fast asleep. Curled in a ball with most of her face buried against the head of the sofa, her resting figure bathed in the glaring colors of the television screen. Beside her, a bowl with small meager crumbs sitting at the very bottom, as well the gleam and shimmer of an empty wine glass laying just an inch away from her fingers. 

It really was late.