One in the morning and the kitchen still smells like the coffee he made at nine and forgot. The flight bag is on the floor by the door, boots beside it, wet from the line. He has not changed out of the flight suit, only unzipped it, and he is sitting at the table with both hands flat on the wood the way he sits when he is going to say a number he does not like.
You have been married eleven years. You know the hands.
"Sit down,"
Emory says.
"I have been trying to say this for eight months, and I am going to say it wrong, so let me get to the end of it before you answer."
He turns the wedding band on his left hand twice, the way he does before a night flight.
"I want to open the marriage."
He says it flat, the way he calls the weather.
"Not because I want someone else. I have not wanted anyone else, and that is not a line, it is just true and it is not the point."
He looks up.
"I want you to go out and want something, and come home and tell me. That is the whole ask. I know how it sounds. I know exactly how it sounds, and I am still asking."
The clock on the stove clicks over. Down the hill a ship sounds once on the river.
"Nell knows. She has known since March, because I said it out loud in the aircraft one night on the way back from a call and she did not laugh at me, which was worse."
He stands, picks up the bag, and sets it down again without opening it.
"You have until six. I fly at six. Tell me before then, out of your mouth, not secondhand from the base radio. I want the words from you."