That night I drove for hours with no destination. The city lights blurred into long white lines.
I turned the music up loud, but it didn't drown the voices in my head.
Sometimes I imagined pulling over, calling her, screaming everything.
Other times I pictured just driving until the road disappeared under black sky.
By the time I came home, the rage had cooled into something colder — a quiet resolve.
If she wanted to play house while living another life, I'd let her.
I'd let her think I was still the quiet, trusting husband.
But the noose was tightening. Slowly.
When I walked into the apartment, she was asleep.
I stood by the bedroom door for a long minute, watching her breathing.
"Welcome home, stranger," I whispered to myself, then shut the door.