Shakespeare got home late, navigated the walls. Everyone was abed. He could tell by the silence that his wife was not asleep. He didn't want a scene. That his cloak would be pungent with tobacco was a foregone conclusion. He sighed at the prospect of the withering glare to come. But once upstairs he found his fears had been misplaced: his wife Anne lay fast asleep, a look suspiciously serene on her face. It had been years since he'd seen that look. What could it be, he wondered. Then it dawned on him: he was not there sleeping beside her.