I stopped twisting the plain silver wedding band on my left finger and looked at him. The black smartphone was his lifeline to the commercial real estate firm, containing every client contact and scheduled meeting for the next quarter. He kept his entire life organized within those glass boundaries.
Yet his panic felt too large for a lost work tool, too heavy for a piece of glass and metal that could be replaced by the IT department on Monday morning. His eyes had a wild, unfocused look that made me want to pull him close and ask what was truly wrong.
“We should look in the car together,” I said, putting the blue checkered dish towel on the counter. I reached for my cardigan, wrapping it tightly around my shoulders to ward off the sudden draft that seemed to fill the room.
He nodded slowly, but his eyes remained fixed on the floorboards as if expecting the device to materialize from the pattern of the tiles. He seemed to be listening for a ringtone that we both knew would never come from the quiet kitchen.
“I parked on the gravel shoulder by the mailbox,” he murmured, his voice barely rising above the hum of the refrigerator. “The gym parking lot was completely full when I arrived, so I had to leave the sedan near the curb.”
“Let me get the heavy flashlight from the utility closet,” I said.
I reached into the dark closet, my hand finding the cold aluminum grip of the flashlight behind the winter coats. The metal felt heavy and frozen against my skin, reminding me of the long winter months that were slowly approaching our small town.
The weight of the heavy metal torch in my palm felt solid, a small weapon against the sudden draft of uncertainty that had entered our kitchen. I flicked the switch, and the strong white beam cut through the dim hallway, illuminating the framed photos of our wedding day.
