She had not raised her voice. She had not raised her hand. She had not, in the end, even raised her eyes when he left.

The cup. The dryer. The sweatpants. The paper towels. The yogurt. None of it explained why the kitchen smelled wrong, but everything in it bore the wrong smell. She walked out, then walked back in, then stood at the counter for a long time without doing anything.

Outside, an ambulance. Inside, the radio's hum, somebody's morning show.

She thought: enough.

She thought: not yet.

What did "enough" even mean? It meant, probably, that you were old now. That you had learned which arguments to skip. That when somebody you'd known for thirty years told you a story you'd heard before, you let the story land, you let the man feel told, you got on with the day. She'd done it for years. She could do it for another year. She could do it forever.

She turned the radio off. The silence was much worse.
