“Trust me.”
I did.
For thirty-five years, I did.
Then one winter evening, everything changed.
It happened on an ordinary Tuesday.
There was nothing special about that day.
I had gone grocery shopping.
Victor had spent most of the afternoon repairing a cabinet in the hallway.
We ate dinner at seven.
We watched television afterward.
At eight forty-five, Victor stood up.
I watched him walk toward the kitchen.
For thirty-five years, I had seen the same movement.
Same time.
Same cupboard.
Same bottle.
But that night, something inside me suddenly resisted.
“Victor?”
He stopped.
“Yes?”
“Don’t pour mine tonight.”
He turned around.
For a second, I saw something in his face I had never seen before.
Fear.
It disappeared almost immediately.
“Why?”
“I don’t feel like it.”
He remained silent.
Then he smiled.
“Of course.”
He returned to the kitchen.
I expected him to argue.
He didn’t.
He poured only one glass.
