Dinner was at eight.He cooked. I set the table the way I always did. Two plates. Two glasses of water. The cloth folded beside the sink for after.We sat down.He served the food.I picked up my fork.And before the part of me that had been failing all day could stop me again,“I owe you an apology,” I said.He looked up.“Last night,” I said. My voice was steady. I made sure of it. “The door was open. But I pushed it further. I knew the rule and I pushed it anyway.” I held his gaze. “That was wrong. It will not happen again.”He looked at me for a moment.Really looked at me. Not the way he looked at newspapers or papers or folders. The way he looked at things that required actual attention.Then he set his fork down.“The door was open,” he said.“Yes,” I said. “But…”“I left it open,” he said.I stopped.He picked up his fork again. Cut through his food slowly.“I wanted to see,” he said. Even. Quiet. No accusation in it. “Whether the rules were something you had agreed to or some
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