He jumped slightly, his thumb instantly swiping the screen shut before he turned to face me.
“Just a work email,” he said, but his fingers remained clamped tight around the edge of the device.
He bent down to retrieve the spoon, his shoulders tense beneath his blue flannel shirt.
“We have enough to worry about without digging up old bank drafts,” he said, his voice lower than usual.
“I was only thinking about the savings account,” I said, twisting my plain silver wedding band.
“The wedding is in four days,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Let the banks handle the past.”
He set the silver coffee pot on the trivet with a sharp metallic click.
I looked at his phone, which lay face down on the laminate counter, its screen dark and silent.
The morning fog had not lifted by the time I parked on Tenth Street.
