Laundry nights gained a new ritual. He lifted shirts to the light, hunting “lint residue” like a detective of minor crimes. “Perfect,” he’d say when fibers behaved; “almost,” when they didn’t. Pleasure and purpose shone on his face so brightly that she felt obliged to accept the invisible rubric.
At dinner, he adjusted her napkin by a degree, smiling as if he’d rescued her from some minor catastrophe. “Angles flatter the table,” he teased. At this point, she wanted to ask what angles flattered a life, but the food was hot, his smile was kind, and she thought it too petty a question to ask.