That night had started too quietly to be real
The kitchen smelled of fried chicken and rice, and an old jazz tune, one of those Julian only played on special occasions, drifted softly from the speaker. He moved around the kitchen with exaggerated precision, as if playing the role of a doting husband in a family happiness commercial. His movements were too fluid. His smile, too practiced. There were too many silences between his words.
I watched him from the table, feeling a slow, growing anxiety inside me; formless, without evidence, just a strong premonition that I couldn’t shake off.
Evan swung his legs under the table and giggled. He loved it when his father cooked. For him, it was an event, almost an adventure.
“Chef Julian!” he announced solemnly.
My husband smiled, but his eyes weren’t smiling. They kept sliding down to the phone lying face down next to him. He waited. I saw him as clearly as I saw my own hands.
He had changed in the last few months. He hadn’t become rude. He hadn’t become cold. He had become distant. Like a man who had already mentally left the room, but whose body remained inside.
I tried to justify it with fatigue, stress, work. Any logical word that didn’t sound true.
Evolution
Continued on the next page
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