“Which one?”
Her face tightened.
“Don't be cruel.”
“I'm not.”
He counted on his fingers.
“Planning it?”
She looked away.
“Inviting three men?”
Nothing.
“Giving them parking passes?”
Silence.
“Having an overnight bag ready?”
Her eyes closed.
“Laughing about me upstairs?”
That one hurt her.
He continued:
“Or believing I'd forgive whatever you did because I've forgiven you before?”
The Wife whispered:
“All of it.”
The Husband nodded.
“Good.”
She looked at him hopefully.
“Good?”
“It saves us arguing about definitions.”
The Wife walked toward him.
He stepped back.
She stopped.
That hurt her more than anything he had said.
“I love you.”
The Husband said nothing.
“I do.”
He looked at her.
“Maybe.”
Her eyes filled.
“You don't believe me?”
“I believe you feel something.”
He spoke calmly.
“I no longer trust your definition.”
She wiped her eyes angrily.
“This wasn't because I stopped loving you.”
“Then what was it?”
She shook her head.
“I don't know.”
“Yes.”
He looked toward the stairs.
“You do.”
The Wife breathed out.
“I felt trapped.”
“By me?”
“By everything.”
“Marriage?”
“Routine.”
“Responsibility.”
“Expectations.”
The Husband nodded.
“So you wanted freedom.”
“Yes.”
“And wanted me waiting at home.”
She looked down.
He continued.
“That's not freedom.”
A pause.
“That's immunity.”
The Wife stared.
He had never said anything to her with that much finality.
“You wanted to do whatever you wanted and know I would absorb the consequences.”
She whispered:
“I thought we'd work through it.”
The Husband almost admired the honesty.
“Before or after?”
“What?”
“Did you think we'd work through it before you invited them?”
She said nothing.
“Or did knowing I would forgive you make it easier to do?”
Tears spilled.
“I don't know.”
The Husband nodded.
“I do.”
She looked at him.
“You always forgive me.”
He repeated her words quietly.
The Wife closed her eyes.
Now she heard what they sounded like.
Not love.
Permission.
The Husband walked toward the guest room.
The Wife followed.
“Where are you going?”
“Sleeping.”
“In there?”
“Yes.”