At the center of the screen, Daniel Day-Lewis brushed his long black hair from his face and took off in a sprint through a forest. So low was the volume of the film’s soundtrack that it was nearly inaudible under the dueling sounds of impassioned breathing. Two wine glasses, one empty and one half full of White Zin, lined the wide top of a thick coffee table near an open bottle. A centerpiece with two tall, lit candles sat beside the wine glasses. An unseen wall clock’s pendulum glided back and forth. It almost sounded like a faint, comforting heartbeat under thin, metallic hands that read a quarter ‘til one. Lisa had never noticed it before, but Marty bore a notable resemblance to her husband, especially right then as she twisted her fingers in his short, silky blonde hair. She guided his head in again to press her glossy, carmine-shaded lips to his ear. It had been so long since she’d felt the warm breath of a man along her neck. Though it felt wrong, it also felt good. When Marty had arrived at her doorstep with a VHS cassette in tote and clad in his light-blue, neatly pressed guard uniform, he was noticeably nervous.
