“I cut myself.” She held up her finger for him to see.

“Look. Where were you and Molly? Someone stuck a knife right-side-up in the dishwasher.”

“Ow.” He kissed her finger. “I was taking the trash out to the curb, bagging the recycling.”

She sighed, still not looking up at her husband. Something subterranean began to shift and she made a choice between irritation and guilt; she allowed the irritation to rise like cream: thick, rich, avoiding the guilt that lay directly below it.

Our vows are still there, never broken.

She pushed back from the counter, turned to Phil and yanked her hand from him. He stepped back and she saw him as a sketch that she could erase, smudge the edges of his body into the faux finished walls.

He wrinkled his nose and tilted his head, furrowed his mouth in the concerned expression he saved for illnesses, wrecked cars, bounced checks. “Amy, what is wrong?”

“I told you, I cut my finger.” She held it up for him to see again. Blood leaked through the paper towel. She pulled off the paper towel and threw it in the trash, allowed the blood to drip onto the hardwood floor. “Hello, can’t you see that?”

He reached for her hand and kissed the bloodstained finger, then opened the cabinet above her head and pulled down a Band-Aid, some Neosporin. “Here, hon, give me your finger. I’ll fix it.”

She began to cry.

“Does it hurt that bad? Maybe it needs stitches,” Phil said.

“No, it doesn’t need stitches.” She wiped at her face with her free hand. “I’m fine . . . fine.”

“Really?”

“I’m just . . . tired.”

“Why don’t you go to bed early tonight?”

“I have papers to grade, laundry to fold. I have to print the lineup for the Art Festival. I have to—”

“Stop it, Ame. Don’t run yourself into the ground. Damn, the holidays haven’t even started yet.” Phil wrapped the Band-Aid tightly around her finger, stayed the bleeding.

“Thank you, Phil.”

“At your service.” He kissed her and tousled her hair.

The touch of his mouth on the inside of her bottom lip evoked the pressing, desperate need of Nick leaning her against the brick wall. Once again, she chose irritation and turned her back on Phil.

Something flashed pink in her peripheral vision, sent a weakness down her inner thighs—a pink folded paper on the kitchen counter. She didn’t turn to it, but pulled on her Band-Aid.

Phil lifted the paper. “Oh, I almost forgot, with your near finger-severing . . .” He waved the scrap of paper. “I was taking out the trash, and this was on the floor of your study. I didn’t know if you were aiming for the trash or if it fell off your desk. Do you need it?”