Fog sits like cream of mushroom soup on the lawn outside. I twist a napkin in my hands, watching it through the window. Dinner is growing cold on the table.
I walk around the room in circles, treading the silence under my feet. The dog is asleep. He never wakes up until my husband is home. I’m the one who feeds him, walks him twice a day. Ever since Katie left for college, I’m the only one left to do it.
Katie will probably call her father after he comes home. I will hear her voice coming out faintly from the phone as they talk. “How’s Mom?” she will ask. And he will say, “She’s great.”
I finally hear the sound of a key turning in the front door. It swings open, and the dog’s head perks up. A cacophony of barks. I hear his laughter. I contemplate telling him I have stage IV breast cancer; I contemplate telling him I’m having an affair. I contemplate slicing his head open like a melon.
“Hi,” I say.
He looks at me, smiles, and reaches down to pet the dog.
