Ethan felt his chest tighten. He stepped back behind the wall. Hall clock ticked louder. The bruise would not leave his mind. When Ruth noticed him, she smiled too fast. “You are home.” She reached for a towel to dry her palms. The towel shook. You should have called. What happened to your wrist? Clumsy me, she said. Light and practiced.
Soap makes the floor slippery. Clare stepped in wearing heels that struck the tiles like little hammers. She kissed Ethan, then shot a quick look at the bucket.
“We had a spill. Ruth insisted on cleaning it up. She can’t stand messes,” she said.
Ruth kept her gaze lowered. The air was thick with the smell of bleach and leftover pasta. Ethan felt a metallic taste rising—anger he couldn’t afford to show. He asked what they were having for dinner. Clare said she’d ordered sushi. Ruth quietly moved to get the plates.
Later, when the city outside faded into hushed murmurs, Ethan wandered through the penthouse taking inventory of small wrongs. A guest robe was left damp in the laundry. A chipped mug had been tossed into the trash. A cushion on the terrace was soaked through.
When he returned to the kitchen, he found Ruth still rinsing teacups at midnight.