Not because of the volume. Miguel wasn’t shouting. But because of how inappropriate the situation was. They’d been married for eight years. He’d always been the kind of man who gently corrected waiters, who never raised his voice to cashiers, who usually responded to conflicts with silence rather than aggression. Seeing him get angry over the bed linens was like seeing a stranger with your husband’s face slightly distorted.
You apologized, which embarrassed you afterwards.
That was part of the trap, too. When the strange intrudes on domestic life, you don’t immediately call it strange. You reduce it to something manageable. Stress. Exhaustion. Misunderstandings. Work pressure. Anything but danger. Miguel traveled often for work, something that once seemed like one of those inconveniences of adult life that you quietly build a life around. He was a regional sales manager for an electronics distribution company, always flying to Los Angeles, Dallas, Chicago, sometimes Denver, sometimes San Diego; the kind of man who racked up airline status, hotel points, and airport bar stories. In the early years of your marriage, you missed him when he wasn’t around. Later, you missed the version of him who used to come back.
