He was angry.

Angry that I had seen it.

That was the first clean piece of information the evening gave me: that in the space between being caught and being sorry, my husband had chosen anger, and pointed it at me.

I have come to believe you can learn almost everything you need to know about a person from the half-second before they compose themselves — from the reflex that fires before the performance can catch up to it.

A better man, caught like that, would have felt shame first; it would have flooded his face before a single word arrived, because shame is what a conscience does automatically when it is seen.