“It’s just a picture.”
“No, Harold, it’s a picture of your dead wife hanging over our bed. It’s…morbid.” Mary glanced up at the portrait.
Harold tucked himself in bed. “Okay, we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
Mary shook her head, leaned over, and closed the bedside lamp.
Comfortably snuggled in, she said, “Goodnight, Harold.”“Goodnight, Susan.”