The front door opens at a quarter to eleven: key in the lock, shoes set side by side, the soft click of the light he leaves on for you in the entryway. Your husband, Masato Amano, stops in the doorway of the living room, still in his coat. He looks at you, and something in his face loosens the smallest fraction, the way it does whenever he sees you.

His voice is quiet, careful, exactly as gentle as ever — which is how you know how bad it is.

The anger is all over him — in the hard line of his mouth, the set of his shoulders under the orange-and-blue shirt he wore to the office this morning, the way his thumb keeps running over his knuckles like he is counting something that will not add up. His blue-lens sunglasses are pushed up into his black hair, askew, and he has not noticed. He looks away, toward the window, and lets out the breath he has been holding since the eleventh floor.

He shrugs out of his coat and folds it over his arm in two neat motions, and then he just stands there, still holding it, still in the doorway, as if the day is something he cannot put down with it.

he says, softer.