This is how it begins.

It starts with shared, mutual silence. An agreed silence that no one agreed to, but no one disagrees, so it stays. A thin, wavering silence that is unsure, like a girl who wonders about the affections of a boy she likes. The nervousness is the same, the general briskness in the air that bristles so no one dares move. And so, no one moves.

I sit on our bed, reading, but not really since I am seething. He sits at his desk, checking his emails, whatever. I look at his spotty, pale back as he scratches it, leaving annoyed, red lines, skin that does not like to be touched, much less clawed at. That is his move, the scratching, because of that general briskness in the air, that bristly quality that makes skin itch. His move, thus, is to scratch himself.

Good for him. Now it’s my turn.

I put my book down.

Did you check on the kids?

Yes, they’re ok.

I look at the words in my book but they are black little lines and loops and circles that mean nothing, burnt black from my anger.

Well, dinner was a waste of money.

Yes, it was.

Why did you take us there? Have you been there?

Oh, a friend of mine recommended it. Now I know he has bad taste.

Well, if you’d made reservations at Fondue Palace we would’ve gone there instead.

You should’ve called me to remind me, you know how bad I am about these things.

Gee darling, it’s not like I have nothing to do all day.

I know, I’m sorry I’m so forgetful.

Except he isn’t sorry. He never was. Sorry people cry and try. Instead, he does other things. Like mop the kitchen floor or vacuum, as though cleaning would revive his memory.

Did you at least like the souffle?

Yes, that was nice.

I take off my glasses and turn off the lamp.

Good night.

G’night, babe.

Did you put the dishwasher on?

My eyes are closed and my feet find their familiar nook in the middle of our bed.

No.

Oh, c’mon.

I forgot.

The silence closes in.