(Rebecca's POV)
I study him.
The new punctuality. Eight minutes early, not late. He was always late before. Never early. Sometimes, he even stood me up.
The hands flat on the table. Palms down. Still.
The absence of maneuvering.
No angle. No leverage. No version of this conversation that benefits him in any way I can find.
My body distrusts all of it on principle.
My body has six years of receipts.
The humidifiers I cleaned alone every Sunday with improperly diluted agents until my hands cracked and bled. The eczema cream I kept in my desk drawer that he found once and never asked about. The hidden surname. The false enrollment. The ironed shirts at exactly the temperature he preferred, logged and delivered without acknowledgment for four years.
My body does not balance its books
