We did not have children. We had talked about them once in the beginning, then less often, then not at all. Life settled around us before either of us quite noticed. We were not unhappy, not in the dramatic way people mean when they talk about broken marriages. We were steady. Predictable. We ate dinner together most nights unless George was “at the farm.” We watched old crime shows on weeknights and movies on Saturdays. We knew what the other one would order at every restaurant in town. He took two sugars in his coffee, never one, never three. I slept on my left side. He liked the windows cracked even in winter because he said stale air gave him headaches.
I thought I knew him.
That is the humiliating part I still have to admit even now: I thought I knew him completely.