She didn’t laugh.
“You should start preparing for divorce,” she went on, just as calmly. “Men get bored after that many years. It’s nothing personal. It’s just how it goes.”
I stared at her. The kitchen clock ticked. Somewhere outside, a lawnmower started up.
“You came into my house,” I said slowly, “to tell me that?”
“I’m being honest with you.” She tilted her head as if she were doing me a favor. “Woman to woman.”
There was something almost casual about the way she said it, like she was warning me it might rain on Thursday. No anger. No embarrassment. Just certainty.
I stood up, picked up her coffee cup, which she’d barely touched, and carried it to the sink. I poured it out and rinsed it. My hands were shaking, but my voice wasn’t.
“Then woman to woman,” I said, turning back to her, “you should go home.”
