Fred stood in the middle of the kitchen, his hand still resting on the back of the dining chair.
He watched the place where Annabel had disappeared up the stairs.
The sound of her door slamming was a sharp, loud punctuation mark in the quiet apartment.
He flinched, not just from the noise, but from the raw, open anger behind it.
He finally let go of the chair and moved slowly back to the table. He sat down heavily in the seat he had occupied only minutes before.
The remains of their untouched breakfast were still spread out. His plate, hers, the syrup pitcher, the crumpled napkins.
It all looked like the wreckage of a small, quiet disaster.
He picked up his fork and tapped it against the edge of his plate, a nervous, repetitive sound.
He knew exactly why she was angry, and the
