The damp smell of oak leaves drifted through the open kitchen window, mixing with the heavy scent of garlic and rosemary from the oven.
I smoothed the front of my pleated skirt and carefully adjusted the silver-rimmed wine glass on the right side of his plate.
Arthur stood by the counter near the sink, his back to me, the green neck of the chardonnay bottle catching the overhead light.
The old refrigerator let out its familiar, low hum that always seemed louder when the house was quiet.
“Almost ready, Diane,” Arthur said, his voice carrying that smooth, over-reassuring tone he used with his wealth management clients.
He reached into his trousers pocket and pulled out a small, folded paper packet.
I stood perfectly still, a stiff linen napkin clutched in my left hand.
He did not look back as he tapped a pale, fine powder into the glass on the left, the one he always set at my place.
He folded the paper again, slid it back into his pocket, and picked up the bottle to pour the wine.
My chest went tight, but I did not make a sound.
“How is the roast looking?” I asked, keeping my voice level.
“Just a few more minutes,” he said, turning around with a warm smile.
He set the glasses down on the table, my glass on the left, his on the right.
As he rubbed his gold wedding ring with his thumb, he pointed toward the stove.
“I think the timer is about to go off,” he said.
He walked back to the oven, pulling a heavy quilted mitt onto his right hand.
The moment his back was turned, I stepped to the table and switched the two silver-rimmed glasses.
The metal of the bases scraped faintly against the dark wood of the table, but the sound was lost in the rattle of the oven door.
I stood back in my place, my palms flat against my skirt.
Arthur brought the heavy pan to the stove top, the roast sizzling in its juices.
He looked at me, his eyes bright behind his neat wire-frame glasses.
“Forty years,” he said, reaching for his glass.
