together.” I answered, “Apparently.” He tried my name again—“Claire.”—but I stopped him: “No. Explain the card.”
His explanation was “There’s context.”
I said, “Good. I would love context.” Then I waited. Nothing came. Finally I took the card and read every word to him: “Laura. Counting every day until the weekend. Love, Daniel.” My voice trembled over its ending, betraying how badly I wanted to sound detached. I wasn’t detached. I was a wife whose marriage was coming apart while she stood inside it. “What context makes that
