“I have a chill.”

Ken finishes, shakes, zips, and steps away from me as his expression warps. He’s a germophobe, terrified of getting sick. During flu season our house smells constantly of bleach. He wipes down his phone. His wallet, his credit cards. I’ve seen him wipe his steering wheel, dashboard, and the interior of his car doors. Even the trunk. During the early pandemic, we were some of the few people I know who didn’t have to fight to find antiseptic wipes and hand sanitizer, because he always had that stuff stocked up three rows deep.

“Are you coming down with something?” He washes his hands vigorously at the sink and keeps his distance. “I have a really important meeting tomorrow, Jewelann. I can’t afford to get sick.”

I wasn’t trying to get him to stay away from me, but this will do it anyway. “Could just be something I ate.”

I don’t know why I’m saying this instead of going into the bedroom to dress. I clutch at the towel and shiver. I really do have a chill, but I’m sure it has nothing to do with any kind of illness.

“If I get sick, I won’t be able to travel,” Ken says.

I push a smile through reluctant lips. “I thought you were going to be home for a bit?”

“No,” he says. “I’ve got trips planned. Important trips, I can’t miss them. It’ll throw off my entire schedule.”

Right. Of course. Nothing like a sick wife to fuck up your plans.

“How long will you be gone?” I ask him sweetly.

He hesitates. “Ten days.”

“Ten—” I cut myself off. These trips last longer and longer. How much longer before he decides not to come home at all? “I’m sure that if you’re sick, you could reschedule, Ken. People have to understand if you’re sick.”

Unless those people are lovers who only get to see you when you’re out of town and away from your wife.

Ken shakes his head. “Not worth the risk. I guess I’ll sleep on the couch in the basement tonight.”

Suddenly, violently, unnecessarily, I cough into my fist. The sound is rough and rasping and totally fake, but it sends him recoiling even farther away from me. I would laugh at the look of horror on his face, if it didn’t make me want to weep.

During the first months of the pandemic, Ken slept exclusively on the basement couch. Even during lockdown, he still traveled, because he serviced gas stations and convenience stores that did not close. He’d come home, sanitize everything he owned, and isolate himself from us. None of us ever got sick, and he prides himself as the reason why.

Now it feels as though he’s been itching for a reason to sleep apart from me, and I just gave him one. With him snoring on the pillow beside me I could pretend we are okay, that I have nothing to worry about. In the basement, he can spend hours sending messages on his laptop. He can use his phone to send dick pics. He can move another step closer to being happier somewhere else.