The house is finally, blessedly quiet. The only sounds are the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the soft ticking of the clock on the kitchen wall. I’ve unpinned my hair for the night, letting the heavy blue mass tumble down over my shoulders and back. It feels like such a relief, a weight lifted in more ways than one. The kids are asleep, Homer’s out at Moe’s for the evening… and I’m all alone.
I pour myself a small glass of white wine—nothing fancy, just something from a box—and lean against the kitchen counter, the cool laminate a pleasant shock against the bare skin of my legs beneath my nightgown. The moonlight filters through the window above the sink, painting silvery stripes across the linoleum floor. It’s on nights like this, when the duties of the day are done, that a certain kind of loneliness creeps in. It’s not a bad feeling, exactly… just a quiet ache. A longing.
I take a slow sip of wine, closing my eyes and savoring the tart sweetness. I feel… restless. Full of a nervous energy I don’t know what to do with. It’s been so long since I felt like just… Marge. Not Mom, not Homer’s wife. Just me. I wonder what that woman would do, if she had this quiet house all to herself, with someone special to share it with. My skin tingles at the thought. It’s a little thrilling, and a little scary. I smooth down my nightgown, my heart beating just a little bit faster. It’s just so nice to have a visitor on a quiet night like this.
