I could not reconcile the husband driving me to dinner with the husband who had taped another woman’s letters beneath our bed.

Yet they were sitting in the same seat, wearing the same wedding ring.

The clutch pressed against my thigh.

One corner of the legal packet had made a hard shape beneath the beads.

I wanted to pull it out and read everything.

I wanted him to explain before I read another word.

I wanted not to be in the car at all.

Instead, I asked whether traffic looked worse than usual, and he answered as though the question mattered.