Faces In Twilight

He laid his face near the bathroom window, studied it a moment, then proceeded to scrub that filthy smile off it. When he was done he placed it with the rest.
He went to the bedroom closet and pulled out his face of Home: domestic, slightly worn around the eyes and mouth yet it was his most honest, most sincere. He brushed it off carefully and placed it on. He could smell the mildew and the grime emanating from the pores. Age does that to faces. He remembered his heart condition, popped some diovan and lipitor (for his cholesterol), took a deep breath and reached for his gun.

He paused half-way down the stairwell arrested by the eerie semi-darkness of the living room where his wife's silhouette danced in candlelight. Aware of his presence, she turned to him. He could feel her eyes bore into him. In the act of losing interest, she turned from him to the living room windows.
"Supper's ready." she said quietly
"The usual?"
She cast a faint smile and opened the curtains. There, bathed in lunar melancholy, she despaired the loss of her expectations; nothing seemed familiar and there was her husband, a failure and a coward behind a facade of sand. It shamed her most days, enraged her most nights. As she stood watching the Moon slowly make its procession through the evening sky, she thought about the many faces she had to wear to keep him under control. It was painful but she harbored no regrets.
He stood behind her and kissed her neck.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
She shivered as tears ran from her eyes. "I am ready."
He held the gun to her head and pulled the trigger.