He came back an hour later. The front door opened and closed with a sigh, not a slam.
He stood in the entryway, a silhouette washed in the cool blue light from the street lamp outside.
"I just drove around," he said, his voice hollow, answering the question I hadn't asked. The scent of the night air - cool asphalt and distant rain - clung to his jacket.
We didn't speak. We moved through the final motions of the evening with a chilling, synchronized efficiency. We were robots running on a depleted program. I wiped down counters; he checked the locks. I turned off the living room lamp; he silenced the chime on the security panel. we ascended the stairs together, yet miles apart, and entered the children's room like benevolent ghosts. I smoothed Lily's hair. He adjusted Noah's blanket. Ou
