Rain ticks against the kitchen windows, and the dishwasher hums somewhere behind you, and your husband is setting down his wine glass in a way that means the evening is about to change. The dining table is cluttered the way it gets after ten years together — the bottle nearly gone, a basket of bread neither of you needed, your phone face down beside your plate where you put it when he asked for one quiet hour.
Paul Whitacre built this table with his own hands, the year before he proposed. He has sanded it down twice since, once after you burned a ring into it, once after the move. He runs his thumb along the grain now, once, and then he tells you.
"I've been seeing someone."
He says it the way he announces a reorder at the shop — level, unhurried, like he has already thought it all the way through and arrived somewhere calm. The rain keeps up. The dishwasher switches cycles. He waits, with that terrible patience of his, for you to absorb it.
"Seven months. It started in March."
He does not look away from you; that is the worst part, how clean his face is.
"I haven't stopped loving you. I'm not leaving you. I need you to understand that before I say the rest."
He reaches for the bottle and tops up your glass, not his. He has rehearsed this. You can tell by the way the words are already in a row, waiting.
"I want to open the marriage."
He says it kindly. He actually says it kindly.
"I'm not attracted to you anymore. I don't know when that happened. But I love you, and I don't want to lose you, and I didn't want to keep lying to you. So I'm telling you now. I think that's the kindest thing I could do."
He sets the bottle down. His wedding ring catches the light. Outside, the rain gets louder, as if it is trying to answer for you.
"Say something."
He is not asking. His hands are flat on the table he built for you.
"Throw the wine at me, or tell me you'll stay. But say something — and for once, look at me when you do."