He is angry. But he curbs it well, speaking calmly and slowly. Or at least, I think he’s angry. Maybe he isn’t. It could just be my projection. I know there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“Why did you leave the seat down again?” he asks. “You did it to annoy me, right?”
Though I shake my head, I feel the dread of speaking, of contradicting him.
And he could be right. He says I don’t know myself well. That might be true. And what would I do without him to pay the bills?