“Yeah. And if my wife asks, I’ll just say the girl probably moved them. Besides, she doesn’t even know her name. I handle everything.”
I almost laughed. Of course he knew my name. My name was Me. The girl was me. The fool was me. The one who supposedly couldn’t read was me, too.
Bruno stepped out of the bathroom and found me standing in the hallway. He had his phone in his hand, and his face faltered for a second. Just a second. Then he smiled as usual—a clean curtain over a rotten window.
“Honey, everything okay?”
I looked at the mop on the floor. “Yes. I dropped it.”
“Be careful. You’ll scratch the floor.”
The floor. Not my pale face. Not my trembling hands. The floor.
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”
He gave me a quick kiss on the forehead—not out of affection, but habit—and went to the bedroom. I heard him opening drawers, humming softly, and then closing the closet door.
That night, I cooked noodle soup, roasted chicken, and red rice. Bruno ate while staring at his phone. I watched him from across the table, wondering how many years I had slept next to a stranger. How many times he had touched my back with the same hand he used to sign plans to kick me out of my own home.
