I close the door.
I don't slam it because I was raised better than that.
I sit on the edge of the bed I slept in with him last night and I put my face in my hands.
He doesn't come up.
Not at five. Not at six.
At seven I hear him make something in the kitchen. Plates. A drawer. He doesn't call me down.
At eight I go down.
He's at the kitchen counter with a plate he made me. Chicken. Rice. Something green. He doesn't look up.
"I'm not hungry."
"Eat anyway."
"Gray."
He looks up then.
His face is flat. Not angry. Closed. The version of him that does sight lines and perimeter checks.
"You said you can survive the distance. Okay. I'll respect that. Eat the food."
"You're mad."
"I'm not mad."
"You're something."
"I'm tired, Simone."
I sit down.
I eat two bites.
He eats across from me. Doesn't look at me. Doesn't make conversation.
The silence is worse than the fight was.
When I finish my water he takes my plate. Rinses it. Puts it in the rack.
"I'm going to sleep downstairs tonight."
My stomach drops.
"Why."
"Because you need space and I need to not feel you in my bed while you're already in Toronto in your head."
"Gray."
"Simone."
"Don't do this."
