My gaze drifts to my phone on the counter.
I could text him.
Except he never gave me his number for normal-wife interactions.
He gave it to me for annulment logistics. Lawyers. Paperwork. Damage control.
Not for,hey, when will you be home?
I press my lips together and set the phone back down.
This is not that kind of marriage.
Instead of obsessing over my phone, I retreat to the kitchen.
Dinner is already underway.
Homemade pasta with a simple tomato cream sauce. Garlic. Basil. I’ve got vegetables roasting in the oven, slicked with olive oil and sprinkled with sea salt. And I splurged on a decent bottle of red from the little gourmet shop down the street.
I stir the sauce slowly, letting it simmer.
The house smells like garlic and tomatoes and something dangerously close to comfort.
I dip a spoon into the sauce to taste it.
The heat hits my tongue and I flinch. “Ow—”
A soft yelp escapes me and I laugh, fanning my mouth. “Idiot.”
I rinse the spoon and try again, more cautiously this time.
Better.
I add a pinch more salt. A little extra basil. Then let it simmer.
Earlier today, I bought fresh flowers.
The entry table had looked too bare. Like the house itself was holding its breath.
I chose white ranunculus and pale peach roses. Soft. Understated. Pretty without trying too hard. They sit in a clear glass vase now, catching the last of the sunlight.
I step closer and adjust them.
Tilt one stem slightly left.
No.
Back.
I step away.
Still not right.
I rearrange them again. And then a third time before I force myself to stop.
You’re overthinking this.
Then I walk back to the dining table and realign the plates.
