In the evenings he wasn’t to be spoken to. She kept her distance and kept things clean, folded napkins for people that were never coming over. She was silent while he worked. Sometimes he spoke to her on the importance of keeping spaces with the people we keep close, and how the blank spaces are the sacred parts. That the blank spaces speak more in their silence than anything else. Sometimes she got the feeling halfway through these conversations that she wasn’t even really there, that maybe she wasn’t the intended audience for such things. So she’d draw her knees close to her chest and look out the windows while the faces of suburban houses changed colors in the early evening. She wanted to tell him more than once, he wasn’t the only man she’d ever loved like this. Something about the idea, the statement in her mouth, and the truth of it made her feel powerful. So, she kept it to herself– her small own rebellion. She knew at some point evenings would be for something else, something other than being silent, and that the space he kept between them was something entirely other than sacred.