Buzz.

Eli doesn’t move. He stares. I frown.

“Eli,” I say.

“Right. Okay.” He looks over his shoulder at me as he goes through the sliders into the kitchen, and I stay on the deck with a split-open tomato in my hand.

Buzz.

Ken’s car pulls through the horseshoe driveway and parks. Without checking my phone, I go into the kitchen, my fingers slick with tomato guts. I busy myself at the sink as my husband comes in.

Does he look more tousled than when he left? A little frazzled? Definitely distracted. He sets the plastic bags on the kitchen table with a thump and pulls out his phone to read something on it. The tip of his tongue presses his top lip the way it always does when he’s concentrating hard. His brow crinkles, and he puts the phone away. He looks at me.

“They were out of steaks.”

“It’s okay. I told you, I have burger patties in the freezer.”

“It’s not the same,” Ken says. “I wanted us to have a real feast. Something special.”

“Well, we’ll make the best of what we have. Okay?” I study him.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzzzzzz.

“Someone’s calling you,” Ken says.

Smoothly, I pull out my phone and swipe to decline without even looking at the screen. I return it to my pocket. “Spam risk. Why don’t you go fire up the grill while I finish the tomato salad?”

Again, my phone hums with a buzz like an angry hornet. It vibrates against my thigh with only the thin fabric of my dress between it and my bare skin. I put a hand over it, trapping it there, and use my thumb to discreetly slide it to silent.

“That dress looks good on you,” Ken says again. “Are you sure you’ve worn it before?”

I shrug, never taking my eyes from his. “Yes. It’s one of my favorites. I wear it all the time.”

“Well, shame on me for not paying better attention. You know if you answer those spam calls and tell them to take you off their list, they have to do it, right?”

Of course I knew that. My smile is vacant and grateful and dumb. “I’ll have to do that next time.”

He nods, having reminded me that he knows better than me. As though speaking to a robot will prevent being called in the future. As though ignoring it and blocking the number later isn’t easier and more efficient.

I pull out a cutting board and a knife from the block on the counter. I can feel him looking at me. I slice the tomatoes into thick chunks and toss them in a bowl. My fingers are slick with juice and seeds, some of which I set aside on a paper towel to plant next year. I put the scraps in my composting bucket. He’s still watching me, the back of my neck prickling until I look over my shoulder.

“You’re so beautiful,” my husband tells me. “Like something right out of a dream. But you’re real, aren’t you? Tell me you’re real.”