Greg ate.
Claire cleaned up.
Greg went to the den.
It was their system. Systems generally didn’t need debate; they just operated until someone disconnected them or they failed completely.
She was chopping onions when Greg opened his mouth.
“You’re doing it again this Saturday?”
She continued chopping. The onion made her eyes water, which was helpful because it gave her tears somewhere to hide.
“Doing what?”
“The thing with Harper and Nina. Your new little club.”
Little club.
He spoke of it as if calling it a ‘little hobby’ or ‘little phase,’ to belittle her and dismiss her, as if the most significant thing Claire achieved in the past decade could be reduced to something small enough to fit in a word like ‘little.’
“We’re going rock climbing,” she said, “at a gym in Charleston. It should be fun.”
“Rock climbing? You three?” Greg leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. This was his posture when delivering opinions he thought were reasonable but that nobody asked for. “You’re fifty years old, Claire.”
“Yes, I’m aware of my age. I was there when it happened.”
“I’m just saying you’ve been gone a lot lately. Karaoke, that thing y’all did at the beach, the cooking thing at that lady’s house. Seems like it’s always something new.”
“Well, the ‘cooking whatever’ was a cooking class. I learned to make mole, and it took hours. And I have to say, it was one of the best days I’ve had in many years.” She hadn’t actually meant to say that last part.
It came out before she could catch it, and then it landed on the kitchen counter between them like somebody had dropped it from a very tall height.
One of the best days I’ve had in years.
Not a day that included her husband.
Not a day that included her sitting at home.
But a day with her best friends in a stranger’s kitchen, learning something new.
Greg’s face did a thing she’d seen before but never named.
He didn’t look angry or hurt. It was a bit like confusion, or maybe bewilderment from a man who had been living in the same house as her for twenty-six years and was just now realizing that one of the rooms had a door he’d never opened.
“Well, I didn’t say you couldn’t go,” he said.
“I know you didn’t. And you don’t get to make that decision for me anyway.”
“I’m just saying it feels like a lot.”
Claire set the knife down on the counter. She looked at her husband. He was wearing the same old College of Charleston T-shirt he’d had since before they were married, which was now very soft and faded. He wore it a lot, now that she thought about it. He had a closet full of clothes, yet he always wore that shirt.
His hair was graying at the temples. This was the face that she had fallen in love with. The same face she had thought she couldn’t live without at twenty-three years old. But now it was older and quieter and getting further away.
“It’s just one Saturday a month, Greg.”
“It seems like every Saturday.”
