Tony
Myra pulled back slowly, her face still shadowed with uncertainty, but she didn't let go of my hand. The kitchen, with its lingering scent of wine and the harsh light of the overhead bulb, suddenly felt too exposed, too tethered to the reality of the numbers we couldn’t fix.
Myra looked toward the dark doorway that led to the bedroom. I had slept on the couch last night, as she seemed to need the space. I wanted this little apartment to be her sanctuary, not a source of stress. I could see her making mental computations, visible in the way she bit her lower lip and tilted her head, calculating the risk of what she was about to ask.
"Tony," she said, her voice so soft it was almost lost to the rhythmic groan of the baseboard heat. "I don't want to be alone tonight."
She stopped, he
