Every Evening, My Husband Tipped Two Drops From a Small Dark Glass Bottle Into My Tea
“You look pale tonight, Margaret,” he said, switching off the electric kettle before it rumbled.
“I had a restless night,” I said, taking my seat at the corner of the island.
He dropped a tea bag into my ceramic mug and poured steaming water to half an inch from the rim.
He turned his back right away, standing over the espresso machine to tamp down his dark roast grounds.
I kept my left arm on the counter and lowered my right hand beneath the overhang.
My fingers found the small plastic sample container I had hidden in my waistband earlier.
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