The silver refrigerator hummed a little too loudly in the quiet of our kitchen.
David set his heavy blue ink fountain pen on the granite counter right next to my half-empty coffee mug.
He picked up the glass carafe and poured himself a cup, his movements smooth and practiced.
“I was looking at the calendar for the fall,” he said, holding the warm mug in both hands.
I adjusted my silver wedding band, sliding it up and down my knuckle.
“The archives are entering their busy season,” I said. “We have three new collections arriving from the historical society next week.”
David did not look up from his coffee.
He tapped his gold watch face once with his forefinger, a rhythmic, impatient sound.
“You are working forty hours a week for an assistant’s wage, Clara,” he said, his voice carrying that rapid corporate confidence he used in his logistics meetings.
I waited, my hand still resting on my ring.
“My salary can cover the bills, Clara, and this way you can keep our home running smoothly,” he said.
The word bills sat between us like a physical obstacle on the clean counter.
“Evelyn said there might be a senior opening in the spring,” I said.
David smiled, a quick, reassuring gesture that did not reach his eyes.
“That is months away, and you are already exhausted by five o’clock every day,” he said.
He took his briefcase from the chair and headed toward the hallway.
I stayed at the table, staring at the blue ink fountain pen he had left behind on the counter.
By noon, the damp scent of old paper folders in the basement archives could not soothe the tight feeling in my chest.
I sat at my desk and stared at my half-empty planner, where the hours of my life were ruled into neat, empty columns.
The voluntary hour reduction form lay in the center of my desk pad.
If I signed it, my hours would drop to twenty a week starting on Monday.
My fingers hovered over the signature line for three full minutes.
The pension contribution would cut in half, and the small savings account I kept in my own name would stop growing.
