They were one piece short of completing the jigsaw. An edge piece, a purple smear of cloud over one of the suspension cables. It was in the man’s pocket, the woman could see the top of it poking out. He was on his hands and knees looking for it. Someday when he grew tired of her, the man would slip the missing piece into his palm and pretend to find it next to the sock he kept beneath the couch. What then? Would he meld the finished scene together with a coat of polyurethane, tack a wire to the back, and hang it on the wall? Would he crumple the pieces into a pile and sweep them back into the box? The woman waited until the man wasn’t looking, then pried a half lamp-post, half snow-dusted tree branch from the center of the puzzle and balled her fist around it. The man’s head came up. “What's that?" the woman said pointing, and when the man turned, coughed the piece into her mouth and swallowed it.