“How did the meeting go?”
He opened the refrigerator.
“Fine. It was long.”
“With the client?”
“Yes.”
“Which client?”
He stopped.
Just for a second.
But it was enough.
“Elena, do we really have to talk about work at midnight?”
“No. I’m just asking.”
He closed the refrigerator.
“A new client. It doesn’t matter.”
“What’s his name?”
His expression changed.
Not to anger.
First irritation.
Then caution.
“Why are you interrogating me?”
“Because you’re my husband.”
“And why are you suddenly interrogating me?”
That was his old trick.
Turn my question into the problem.
Make me feel guilty for wanting an answer.
Before, I would have backed down.
I would have apologized.
I would have convinced myself I was being suspicious, insecure, overly sensitive.
But that night, I had seen his hand on another woman’s waist.
I had seen his lips on hers.
“I’m not interrogating you,” I said. “I just want to know if everything is okay.”
He stared at me for a long time.
Then he sighed.
“I’m tired, Elena.”
He walked toward the bedroom.
He left me alone at the table I had prepared for both of us.
That night, I didn’t cry.
