toast.
“Okay.”
Another silence.
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Okay.”
His expression tightened.
For months, he had complained about my questions.
Now their absence seemed to bother him more than the questions ever had.
“You’re not going to ask?” he said.
I looked at him.
“Ask what?”
He gave a small, disbelieving laugh.
“What time I got home. Where I was. Who I was with. The usual.”
The usual.
As if my distress had become an ordinary part of Sunday breakfast.
Coffee.
Eggs.
Toast.
And Claire asking her husband
