They ate their lunch in silence. After thirty-five years, what more is there to say?
She took a small bite of her impossibly dry sandwich. Sliced turkey on white toast, no condiments allowed. Exactly as he insisted.
She leaned in and took another nibble when she heard skin slapping against varnished maple. She turned and saw her husband gripping the edges of their kitchen table, his face flushed, his brown eyes bulging.
She watched him struggle to breathe, his hands now clawing at his neck, and continued to chew in silence.
When they ask, she was upstairs. Taking a shower.
