I had the kettle on the stove, the blue flame beneath it small and quiet. I did not move away when he set his tools by the cellar door.
“The Henderson set is finished,” he said, his voice a low, deliberate murmur. He wiped his face with a blue handkerchief that smelled of grease. “They will have their pictures back by Tuesday.”
“You should have rested,” I said, my hand going to my silver wedding band. I twisted it twice around my finger, the metal cool against my skin.
James looked down at his boots, which were damp from the gravel outside. “I have three more in the queue. A Philco console from the lodge and two portables from the hotel.”
“We do not need the money so fast,” I said.
“The shop has its own time,” he said, not looking at me. “If you let people wait, they go to the new place by the canal.”
I took a step toward him, the distance between us suddenly feeling like a physical weight. I did not want to spend the next thirty years watching him slip out before dawn and return after dark, a ghost who repaired televisions.
“I don’t want us to just share a house, I want to share a life,” I said.
The words felt thin in the kitchen, but they were the truest things I had said since we signed the registry. He did not answer right away. He only stood there, his hand resting on the back of the wooden chair, his knuckles white against the dark oak.
We moved out to the porch where the air was cooler and the first stars were showing over the Vermont hills. The rain from the night before had stopped, leaving the wooden railing dark and wet.
James sat on the wooden bench, his hands resting on his knees. I sat beside him, close enough to feel the heat coming off his shoulder.
“Are you sure, Sarah?” he asked, his voice barely louder than the breeze in the maples. “You do not have to say things to make me comfortable. I know what this marriage is.”
“I am sure,” I said.
I reached out and placed my hand over his. His fingers were rough from the wire brushes and the emery cloth, and they were trembling.
