Mark did not look at me when he poured the water into the coffee maker. He kept his back turned, his shoulders rigid under his gray fleece pullover. The clock above the stove clicked, a steady, dry sound that seemed louder than usual at six in the morning.
On the counter, his phone lay face down, vibrating once against the tile before he quickly slid it into his pocket. It was the third time since we woke up.
“Are you working late again tonight?” I asked, tapping my bare ring finger against the edge of the laminate counter where my wedding band used to sit comfortably.
Mark cleared his throat and ran his hand through his sandy hair, keeping his eyes on the black liquid dripping into the glass pot. “The budget reviews at the clinic are taking longer than we expected. And the regional meetings in Seattle next week will be just as bad.”
“You have been distant for weeks,” I said, watching the steam rise.
“You are imagining things, Claire, I am just tired from the hospital shifts,” he said, his voice flat.
He did not offer me a cup, though he knew I had a twelve-hour shift starting in an hour. He simply filled his travel mug and left the pot half-empty on the burner.
In the front hallway at seven, Mark reached into his pocket for his car keys, his movements hurried.
He pulled them out too quickly, and his heavy silver key chain clattered onto the hardwood floor near the umbrella stand. The ring held a small metal whistle and three brass keys, sliding toward the baseboard.
I bent down to reach for it, my fingers brushing the cool metal.
“I can get it,” Mark said, his voice sharp as he snatched the keys from the floor before I could touch them.
He stood up, his face flushed under his sandy hair. “Just leave my things alone, Claire.”
He gripped the silver key chain so tightly his knuckles turned white.
He was out the door before I could ask why a simple key chain warranted such a bite. I stood in the quiet hallway, the draft from the open door chilling my ankles.
