But after, as he holds me and nuzzles away our sweat and whispers iloveyou like a benediction in the slow silence, his gaze sometimes seems a million miles away, a thousand years away. Then I speak, and he’s with me again, and whatever I saw in his eyes is gone and I doubt I ever saw it.

Saturday evening, and I’m making dinner. Spaghetti bolognese. Easy, quick. A bottle of red uncorked and breathing—Josh, my favorite brand. I’ve been battling my hair, brushing it out of my eyes with my wrist as I knead spices into the raw ground beef with my bare hands, blow it away with a huff, and finally I get sick of it. Wash my hands and head up to our bathroom in search of a hair tie.

I hear our toilet flush, a pause, and then flush again. When I go into the bathroom, there’s a sour tang in the air. Adrian is wiping his mouth with a hand towel. Mouthwash bubbles as it swirls down the drain. I eye Adrian, waiting for some kind of explanation.

“I realized I haven’t brushed my teeth since I’ve been back and they felt fuzzy.” He brushes lips against my temple. “Dinner smells good—I can smell it from up here.”

And then he’s heading downstairs, leaving me in the bathroom wondering if I’ve missed something.

His toothbrush is dry. The bottle of mouthwash is still in the medicine cabinet—where I always put it. In the ten years we’ve been married, he has never one time put the mouthwash back in the cabinet when he’s done with it, he just leaves it on the counter. It’s one of those little things in a marriage that drive you bonkers, but aren’t worth making a big deal out of. I just put it back, sigh and shake my head and sometimes mutter a few annoyed curses. I do things like that which prompt the same response from him, and it’s just how it is.

But the mouthwash being put away…it sticks in my head as meaning something; I just can’t put my finger on what.

He smelled like mouthwash when he kissed my temple. I scented it, briefly, faintly.

And something else.

Sharp, sour.

“Nadia?” I hear him shout. “Water’s boiling. I’m gonna put the noodles in.”

I set it aside. Later, I’ll have time to puzzle over why he would lie about mouthwash.