"You gonna tell me what's wrong, or am I gonna have to start looking real put out?"

It comes in the evening, after a stilted dinner and even something as mild as sitting down to watch television feeling somehow like she's in the room with a stranger. In flashes, lightning-quick and shameful, she would almost guess she is. It's a pointed request. Urgent.

Hoping, in some fashion, he'll put it to words before she has to. Her eyes don't leave the commercial playing in front of them - detergent - but also directed at the set is a frown.

"It's been days."