I told myself she was tired.
Our dog, Milo, came running from the hallway.
Usually, he lost his mind when she returned from a trip.
Tail slamming into furniture, paws on her legs, and little whining sounds like he had suffered a personal tragedy in her absence.
This time, he stopped six feet away.
He stared at her.
“Milo,” she said, forcing a laugh. “What’s wrong with you?”
He backed up.
“Maybe you still smell like the retreat,” I said.
“Maybe.”
She placed her bag by the stairs and walked into the kitchen.
Then she opened the cabinet.
She stared at the plates for a second.
“Where do we keep the coffee mugs?
I laughed because I thought she was joking.
She looked at me.
“The mugs?”
“You picked that cabinet.”
I pointed to the one beside the refrigerator.
“Right,” she said. “Long weekend.”
It was a small thing.
People forget where things are when they come home tired.
People can act strangely after spending 48 hours meditating near strangers.
So, I let it go.
That night, she climbed into bed on my side.
I stood in the doorway holding a glass of water.
“You’re in my spot.”
She looked down at the mattress.
