Home Late

“I’m home.”

She looked up from her book at the sound of the door slam and his usual entrance announcement.

“Hey, sorry. Traffic.” She bit her lip to keep from saying the thoughts that went through her mind, like: how could you? and: sorry makes up for being three hours late and not telling me?

As he clomped through the living room on his way to the kitchen, she drew a deep breath as if she might divine the essence of where he’d been, who he’d been with. All she detected was the odor of beer.

“Anything to eat? I’m starved.” He opened the fridge and rummaged around while she fumed.