“You didn’t.” She was certain of this, knew that he was mistaken. This time, she told herself, she would hold her ground.

“Yes I did. You never remember. Your head’s like a sieve.”

Katrina steeled herself. “John, you didn’t tell me. I’m sorry I shrank it. But you honestly didn’t tell me.”

His smile vanished. “Surely it isn’t worth lying about, Katrina.”

And reality tilted. She didn’t think she was lying. But she was so tired and he was always so certain. She said, less confident now, “I don’t remember you telling me.”

“All right, darling, I believe you.”

She was relieved at this.

Then he said, “But why didn’t you check the label?”

He pushed her too far.

“I don’t check the label of every item I wash, John! There’s so much laundry to do every day.”

“There’s no need to lose your temper.”

“I haven’t lost my temper,” she said, keeping her voice deliberately level.

“Yes you have. You’re practically shouting at me. It’s only a shirt, for Christ’s sake.”

“Only a shirt! You were the one making a . . . a huge fuss about it.” And now what always happened was happening: her voice was rising and her words were tripping over each other.

“No I wasn’t,” he said calmly. “I simply noticed that my shirt had shrunk. I’m not sure why I’m the one who’s suddenly under attack. Anyone would think I’d shrunk your shirt, not the other way around.”

He maddened her. She really thought she was going mad. She tried to calm down, but the tears were already starting and her thoughts were incoherent, not ranged neatly like his. “I wasn’t attacking you,” she said, and her voice sounded high like a child’s. Of course he couldn’t take her seriously.

“Well, I’m sure you didn’t mean to,” he said. “But I’ve had a long day at work and the last thing I need is to come home and be shouted at.”

“I’m sorry.”

He put out his hand to her. “That’s all right, my love. I know you’re tired. And it really doesn’t matter. It’s only a shirt.”

He was so patient, even when she lost his things.

“Where are my car keys?” he’d call to her from the living room.

“I don’t know,” Katrina would call back. “I haven’t seen them.”

“I put them on the side table like always,” John said, coming into the kitchen. “You must have moved them.”

“I haven’t, love. I haven’t touched them.”

“Are you suggesting,” John said, speaking slowly as though addressing an imbecile, “that they’ve got up and walked off of their own accord?”

“No. But perhaps you misremembered where you put them.”

“Do you think that’s the most likely explanation, Katrina?”