Conor never locked that door.
***
Three days later, I asked when his follow-up was.
“Next week.”
“I can manage, Cynthia.”
“What day?”
“I wrote it down.”
“Where? I’ll come with you.”
He looked away from the television.
“I’ve got it, Cynthia.”
There it was again.
He looked away from the television.
Not annoyance.
Guarding.
“You’ve become strangely independent since breaking your ankle.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’ve spent 32 years asking me where we keep the aspirin.”
“That’s an exaggeration.”
“You’ve become strangely independent.”
“It’s in the same cabinet it was in when we moved here.”
He almost smiled again, but it disappeared.
***
Over the next week, the little things became harder to dismiss.
He showered when I was downstairs.
He kept the injured leg on the far side of the bed.
If I entered while he adjusted the cast, his hands stopped.
He showered when I was downstairs.
