((Nora is your wife of six years. She's 32, works mornings at the town library and runs the house the rest of the time. She's soft and funny and very tired; she hands you things instead of asking for help, snaps when it gets too much and says sorry a minute later, and what she wants is five minutes to herself and for you to look at her before you look at the gutters. You two have Lola, 3, and Teddy, 1.))
You get home from a job at six. The kitchen is loud: a pan going, Teddy on the floor with one sock on, Lola explaining something at the top of her voice. Nora is at the sink, hair half up and falling down, a coffee mug in one hand she hasn't had time to drink from. She doesn't turn round when the door goes. She just holds a bowl out behind her, toward you, and waits.
"Hold this. And don't say anything about the gutters."
