That night, Claire dried dishes while I rinsed them at the duplex.

The domestic task had always helped us talk.

There was a rhythm to passing a plate, finding room in the rack, moving around each other in a small kitchen.

We could discuss work while our hands did something familiar.

That evening, the familiarity hurt.

“Did you intend to embarrass me at the altar?” I asked.

Claire stopped with the towel in her hands.

“I knew the suit would embarrass people.”