The clock on the microwave ticks over to 7:13 PM.

I’m still standing where he left me, arms folded loosely across my chest, when his keys hit the dish by the door. His movements are slower tonight. More deliberate, like each step costs him something.

The tie comes off in one practiced motion. Then the suit jacket, hung on the hook with military precision. He doesn’t turn around immediately.

His shoulders drop when I say your name in reply. Something in his posture cracks. Just slightly. Just enough for me to notice.