A Silver Photo Frame on Our Porch Ended My Fifteen Year Blind Spot
I reached down to touch my empty water glass, watching her fingers as they gestured to describe a cellular envelope.
She did not look at her wedding band once during the entire main course, her hands moving with a fluid, confident rhythm that I had never seen in our kitchen.
A server cleared our plates, offering coffee from a heavy silver pot that looked like the one my mother kept in her dining room buffet.
“Would you like a refill, sir?” the server asked, leaning over my shoulder.
“No, thank you,” I said, checking my watch. It was twenty-two minutes past eight.
I looked back at Anna, who was now laughing at some inside joke Claire had made about their old organic chemistry professor.
I realized then that my role in her life was changing, shifting from the manager of her world to the custodian of her time.
It was a lighter weight than I had expected, a clean sort of quiet that did not feel like the cold distance of our bedroom weeks ago.
During the dessert course, the department head stood up to give a brief summary of the year’s achievements, noting the new grants they had secured for cellular research.
