“You’re quiet,” she said.
Outside, a car passed. Maybe Mark’s. Maybe not.
He closed his eyes and thought: Tomorrow, I will learn to like the marmalade. End of piece.
Because the sixth, he told himself, would be different.
Instead, he said: “The marmalade is fine.”
Now, on the fifth, he didn’t even hide. He sat in the living room, reading a book upside down, while she texted Mark under the table. Her thumb moved in small, confident circles. Once, she glanced up and smiled—not cruelly, but kindly. The kind of smile you give a child who doesn’t understand the grown-up joke.