"I never meant for the neighbors—"
"You meant for me not to know. That's what you meant."
She nodded. There was no fight left in the gesture. "Yes."
Scout's tags clicked as he shifted. Outside, a car passed. Somewhere on Maple Court a dog answered Scout's earlier bark too late.
Reggie took off his work jacket and hung it on the hook by the back door, the same hook he had used for three years. The patch stared at him: MODEL AREA. MAINTENANCE. He had spent years keeping other people's staged lives looking untouched. His own house had been staging too, and he had been the last person to notice the furniture had been rearranged.
"I'm sleeping on the couch," he said.
"Reggie—"
"Don't. Not tonight. Tonight I need the couch and I need you not to explain me into forgiveness."
She nodded again. Tears slid down without drama. "Okay."
He took a pillow from the hall closet. He took the throw blanket from the armchair. Scout followed him to the couch and jumped up before Reggie could tell him not to, then looked guilty and stayed. Reggie let him. The dog's warmth was the only uncomplicated thing in the room.
Sondra stood in the hallway for a while, a grey shape against dim light. Then she went to the bedroom and closed the door softly, as if volume itself might be another kind of violence.
Reggie stared at the ceiling. He did not sleep for a long time. When he did, he dreamed of model kitchens with no food in the drawers and hallways that kept lengthening no matter how fast he walked.
***
Morning arrived without permission.
Reggie woke stiff, Scout's head on his chest, the living room grey with early light. For three seconds he forgot why he was on the couch. Then the forgetting ended.
He made coffee out of habit. Sondra came out in a robe, eyes puffy, and stopped when she saw him at the counter like a guest who still knew where the mugs were.
"I called out," she said. "I can't sit at a desk today and pretend my hands work."