Not angrily.
Almost critically.
He noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re looking at me.”
“I’m allowed to look at you.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t.”
She sighed.
He closed the refrigerator.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“That sounded like something.”
“Please don’t start.”
He stared.
“I asked one question.”
“And I answered.”
“No, you said nothing in the tone people use when the answer is clearly something.”
She picked up the wine.
“This.”
“What?”
“This is why I don’t want to talk.”
He stood very still.
“Because I ask follow-up questions?”
“Because every conversation turns into you analyzing me.”
“I’m trying to understand you.”
“I don’t want to be understood like a problem.”
He nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
She looked almost surprised that he did not push.
He put his food in the microwave.
The dog sat beside him.
The machine hummed.
The silence between husband and wife became louder than either of them.
Finally she said, “You know what? Forget it.”
He turned.
“I already did.”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
He almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because there seemed to be no correct direction.
“If I ask, I’m analyzing.”
“If I stop, I don’t care.”
“Tell me what you want me to do.”
She stared at him.
“I shouldn’t have to tell you.”
That sentence struck him harder than she intended.
Maybe because they had had versions of the same argument before.
He lowered his voice.
“I cannot read your mind.”
“No.”
“You can barely look up from your own life long enough to notice mine.”
“That’s not fair.”
She laughed.
There it was.