He checked his phone
twice during dinner. Not
for anyone in particular —
just the gesture of
it, the way you check a
door you know is locked.
She watched him do it
from across the small
kitchen table, the steam
from the ramen curling
between them like a
question neither of them
would ask out loud.
"You okay?" she said.
"Yeah," he said.
"Just tired."
She nodded. She was
tired too. But the tired
she meant was different
from the tired he meant,
and they both knew that,
and neither of them said
so.
Later, brushing teeth
side by side in the
mirror, she caught his
eye. He smiled — not a
real smile, but the kind
people give when they're
trying to prove they're
fine. She smiled back
the same way.
They went to bed. He
fell asleep first. She
lay there listening to
him breathe, thinking
about a phone call she'd
been meaning to make to
her mother for three
weeks now. She picked up
her phone, opened the
contact, stared at the
name.
She put it down. She
turned off the lamp.
In the dark, she
whispered, "Goodnight,"
even though he was
already asleep.