He could have argued.
Instead he asked, “Is that really where we are?”
His wife lifted her wine.
“I don’t know where we are.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
She rolled her eyes.
That answered enough.
The husband turned.
Walked upstairs.
For the first few steps, he expected her to call after him.
She did not.
He opened their bedroom closet.
Took a small duffel bag.
Three shirts.
Two pairs of jeans.
Socks.
Underwear.
Toothbrush.
Laptop charger.
Medication.
He moved automatically.
Only when he zipped the bag did his hands begin shaking.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
Their wedding photograph stood on the dresser.
His wife laughing under late-afternoon sunlight.
Her hand against his chest.
He remembered the exact moment.
The photographer had told him to whisper something romantic.
He whispered that the catering manager had put the vegetarian meals at the wrong table.
She laughed so hard the photograph became one of their favorites.
Now he looked at it and wondered how two people traveled from there to a kitchen where one could say she would rather kiss a dog.
He picked up the bag.
Downstairs, his wife remained exactly where he had left her.
Her phone was now in her hand.
He crossed to the mudroom.
Took the dog’s leash.
That finally got her attention.
“Where are you going?”
He clipped the leash onto the dog’s collar.
“Somewhere else.”
“For what?”
“Tonight.”
His wife stared.
“You’re actually leaving because of one argument?”
He looked at her.
“No.”
“Then what?”
He nearly answered.
Instead he asked, “Do you want me to stay?”
She hesitated.
Only two seconds.
Maybe less.
It was enough.
The husband nodded.