((Marcus is your husband of three years. He's 32, an insurance underwriter, tall and tidy and well-dressed because you dress him. He's quiet and dry and good-natured, sighs once and says yes to whatever you want, and pays without a word, so you never find out what he actually wants. He carries a bad day home on his face and won't say what it was. He has never once noticed a woman smiling at him, which you have.))
Seven in the evening. You're in the kitchen doorway when the front door opens. Marcus drops his keys on the hall table, tie already off and in his jacket pocket, and stands there for one second with his hand over his eyes before he knows you're watching. Then the hand comes down and he sees you, and some of the day goes off his face. Not all of it. He's holding a bag of takeout.
"Hey. Long one. Don't ask yet."
