I know he can be ruthless.
I know he has violence in him.
And I know almost nothing else.
What am I supposed to do with that?
Ask him?
How?
How does a person ask a man if he murdered his wife?
There is no version of that conversation that does not destroy whatever tentative thing we have.
If he did not do it, and I ask, he would be offended.
No.
Hurt.
Maybe furious.
Whatever trust there is between us would fracture instantly, and I would deserve it.
And if he did do it?
My stomach churns hard enough that I press a hand against it.
The nausea rolls through me again, sudden and sharp.
I close my eyes and breathe through my nose.
That is another thing.
The sickness.
I have not been able to shake it.
I woke up Sunday morning feeling off, queasy and lightheaded, my stomach unsettled before I even got out of bed. I blamed the rich food because I’m not used to it. Then the nerves.
Then I blamed the articles.
I swallow hard and keep my hand pressed to my stomach, praying for it to pass.
It does not.
I lower my hand from my stomach and look at my computer.
The report is still open.
Quarterly something. Internal something. Words I should absolutely care about because they are probably important and I am being paid an obscene retainer to care about them.
Instead, I open a new tab.
I stare at the search bar for too long.
Then I type:Nausea, lightheaded, no fever, stress
