Roasted potatoes.
The chocolate cake he always requested on his birthday.
I had done most of it with one hand.
Not because I was hungry.
Because I desperately wanted one normal evening.
One dinner.
One conversation.
One small piece of evidence that the fire had damaged my skin but hadn’t destroyed my marriage.
Derek arrived at 6:18.
He wore a dark suit.
He looked at me for perhaps half a second.
Then he looked away.
“Dinner’s ready,” I said.
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Trip.”
“What trip?”
“Phoenix.”
He walked into the bedroom.
I followed.
He pulled a suitcase from the closet.
“Since when?”
