I’m leaving you, she announces over breakfast, and he asks her to pass the toast. Later that morning, the pill bottle is empty, but he’s still on his way to work. By noon, she’s fingering cucumbers at the supermarket, her nails shredding the slick skin, and he’s reminding himself not to discuss things with the watercooler. As he signs all his emails with the key to his apartment, she’s making the checkout guy believe in God. At home, the carpet clings to the floor, sizzling with their footprints. The refrigerator paces around the kitchen, dropping ice cubes in its wake, while the stove strikes a pose — it’s acting hotter than it feels.
When she’s back with the groceries, the neighbor offers to help carry them in. They fill the cabinets with fog. At the office, he’s warming up the secretary for lunch; flossing his teeth with her grin. She always handles his paperwork. By 5, he’s taking the long way home, making small talk with the radio. She’s pulling a casserole out of the oven, apron so tight she can’t quite breathe — but she likes it like that. By 7, they’re talking about their days with their forks, the sound of scraping rattling the ceiling. They both ignore the salt shaker, which always seems to smirk. By 8, she’s slithering up the banister. They leave the dishes in the sink, and if you look closely, there are grip marks on the water glasses.