I went to bed that Sunday night stifling the impulse to ask Bryan what was wrong. I didn’t have to ask, I knew. I knew right after that outburst in the car when he said, “I wish you were a man”, and instead of smiling it out, he became disconcerted.
He had been different, and went out the following weekend and didn’t come back until late Sunday. I knew he was confused, but I pretended I didn’t notice.
His dull mood continued at breakfast on Monday, where he was quite distant. I didn’t need to make conversation. Having spent a wretched night I was not in top form.
Bryan said something about needing to take his car for servicing, so I drove myself to work He arrived about fifteen minutes after me, so his excuse fell flat. But I didn’t say anything.
I was basically useless so slipped out and went home. I wasn’t really sick, I just felt that way.
I caught a few hours sleep, awoke hungry, took myself out for a meal at three thirty. I knew ‘something’ happened and Bryan didn’t know how to bring me into the story.