“Because every Thursday you make bacon, honey.” He grinned and stole a piece straight from the pan before I could swat his hand away.
He grinned and stole a piece straight from the pan.
Normally I would have swatted him anyway. Instead I just watched him — the exact same man I’d kissed goodnight a few hours earlier, the same man who’d called me around six the previous evening.
“Looks like I’m going to be later than I expected tonight,” he’d said on that call.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just trying to finish something before Friday.”
“I’ll keep dinner warm.”
“I’ll make it up to you this weekend.”
He’d come home a little after ten. Eaten reheated lasagna. Complained about spreadsheets. Rubbed my shoulders while we watched half a rerun until I fell asleep against him on the couch.
There hadn’t been a single moment, at the time, that felt strange.
Until now.
We carried breakfast to the table. The local news mumbled about traffic on the counter radio. Halfway through his eggs, Elliot checked his calendar on his phone.
“I’ll probably be late again tonight.”
I looked up. He noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I said.
Nothing, I said.
“You’ve got that face.”
