“Well, I didn’t want tea anyway.”
It sounded petulant to her ears, but there was no trying again. It didn’t matter how much she tried to predict her tone and her bearing; she wasn’t the one driving this thing.
“Alright,” he said, picking up the cup. His voice was steady and gentle. She didn’t know what audience he was acting for. They both knew what he was.
“I made breakfast,” he repeated inanely. She had heard him the first time, but of course that didn’t matter. There was a script, and she was abandoning it. That wouldn’t do.
“Thank you, dear. You do so much for me,” she lied.
The strings were pulled taut. She was being moved again. She bounced out of her seat. She jerked towards the sink.
“It’s the least I can do. I’ve been so lucky,” he said, voice as bitter as it had been on that day. But he was still smiling, and when he said, “Thank you for doing the dishes tonight,” his voice was as kind as his expression.
Apologies to Michael at Morpethroad, whose post inspired this one.