His face transformed, a rapid evolution from confusion to a storm of incredulous anger.
“Are you serious?”
The words were low, disbelieving. He threw his hands up in a gesture of utter futility, the towel around his waist slipping dangerously.
“You’re interrogating me about a work text? From three weeks ago?” His voice climbed, each word sharp with disbelief.
“It’s not about the text!” I shouted, the dam of my composure shattering completely, releasing a torrent of poison I’d been storing for weeks. “It’s about you! It’s about you wanting a different life! A life with ‘decompression’ drinks and adventures and women who don’t interrogate you!”
The accusations flew, winged and venomous. “You got a taste of it and now our life, my life, is just the boring thing you have to mana
