For several seconds, the only sound in the kitchen was the low compressor in the refrigerator.
Finally he said, “You followed me?”
It was such a perfect Nathan response that I nearly smiled.
Not: I’m sorry.
Not: I can explain.
You followed me?
“I checked one night,” I said.
“You were spying on me.”
“You told your pregnant wife you were working.
Then you went to a hotel with another woman.”
His mouth tightened.
“It isn’t what you think.”
I looked at the photograph of his mouth against hers.
“What part?”
He turned away, walked toward the sink, then back.
“It became complicated.”
“No.
Complicated is a project deadline.
This was scheduled.”
He looked at me sharply.
“That’s unfair.”
I tapped the statements.
“Tuesday.
Thursday.
Tuesday.
Thursday.
You made it incredibly fair.
You gave me clean data.”
For the first time that evening, Nathan looked afraid.
Not ashamed.
Afraid.
He glanced at the divorce papers.
“Who have you talked to?”
There it was.
The question beneath every other question.
Who knows?
“A lawyer.”
“What did you tell them?”
“The truth.”
Nathan rubbed both hands over his face.
“We’re about to have a baby.”
“I’m aware.”
“You can’t make a decision like this right now.”
“I already did.”
“Because of some photographs?”
“Because my husband has been lying to me for eight months.”
“You don’t know the whole situation.”
“Then tell me.”
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
I waited.
Nathan looked toward the dark windows, where the kitchen lights reflected our silhouettes back at us.
My pregnant body looked enormous beside the island.
Nathan stood several feet away, still wearing the clothes he had chosen for another woman.
Finally he said, “It wasn’t supposed to become serious.”
There are sentences that destroy the speaker without the listener needing to respond.
