She came through the front door Sunday evening carrying the same canvas bag she had left with on Friday.
"Hey," she said.
I stood from the couch.
"Hey. How was it?"
"Good."
She hugged me.
That was the first thing that felt wrong.
Alma always wrapped both arms around my waist and pressed her cheek against my chest. This hug was brief and stiff, like something given to a distant relative at a funeral.
I told myself she was tired.
Our dog, Milo, came running from the hallway.
Usually, he lost his mind when she returned from a trip.
Tail slamming into furniture, paws on her legs, and little whining sounds like he had suffered a personal tragedy in her absence.
This time, he stopped six feet away.
He stared at her.
"Milo," she said, forcing a laugh. "What's wrong with you?"
He backed up.
"Maybe you still smell like the retreat," I said.
