“Thank you, I have it,” she said, her voice smooth and empty.
She took the plates from my hands before I could resist.
Her skin brushed against mine, it felt cold, like she had just come in from the winter air.
She walked to the sink and turned on the faucet.
The rush of hot water filled the kitchen.
I stood by the kitchen island, watching her back.
She scrubbed the pot with methodical, heavy strokes.
The silver invitation still sat on the granite counter.
I picked it up and held it out toward her.
“Are we going to talk about this?” I asked.
She did not turn around.
“There is nothing to talk about, Jake,” she said over the sound of the water.
“I was just being realistic, Anna,” I said, stepping closer to the sink. “A local boutique shop is great, but it does not pay the mortgage.”
She turned off the faucet.
The sudden silence in the kitchen made my heart beat a little faster.
She wiped her hands on the yellow kitchen towel, slowly drying each finger.
“I am going to put Leo to bed,” she said.
