The kitchen still smelled like the rosemary chicken I had spent an hour preparing, but Dave had not looked up from his phone since he sat down.
The blue glow of his screen washed half his face in that pale, underwater light I had grown to resent. Twelve years of marriage, and I had learned to read the back of his phone better than his expressions.
I sat across from him with my own plate, twirling a fork through cold green beans.
“How was the meeting with the new client?”
He half-smiled at the screen, not at me.
“Mm. Fine. They liked the prototype.”
I waited. He did not look up.