“She gets anxious when she’s alone.”
I turned to look at him.
“I don’t get anxious when I’m alone.”
He gave the doctor an apologetic smile.
“She doesn’t like admitting when something is wrong.”
I felt a strange embarrassment, as if I were a child being discussed in front of a teacher.
On the drive home, I confronted him.
“Why did you tell him I was anxious?”
“Because you have been anxious.”
“About what?”
“Your health. Your age. Everything.”
“My age?”
He sighed.
“Margaret, I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Then what way did you mean it?”
He reached for my hand at a red light.
“I’m sorry. I’m frightened of losing you.”
I wanted to believe him.
So I did.
For a while.
Then I noticed the tea.
Daniel had never been particularly interested in making drinks. Before our wedding, he usually drank coffee and joked that tea tasted like hot water that had been introduced to a leaf and disappointed by the experience.
