On Saturday night she made my favorite dinner: pot roast with roasted vegetables, mashed potatoes, and apple pie. She opened an expensive bottle of wine we usually saved for anniversaries.
“What’s the occasion?” I asked, even though my mouth felt numb.
Margaret smiled, and the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Do we need an occasion to enjoy each other’s company?” she said lightly. “You seem so tired lately. I just wanted to do something nice.”
Nice.
I ate slowly while cameras watched her watch me. She poured more wine. She asked me gentle questions designed to sound like care and function like confirmation.
“How’s your chest?” she asked.
“Better,” I lied.
“And the dizziness?”
“Comes and goes.”
She nodded, satisfied.
After dessert she brought me pills again, her gaze sharp, following my throat as I “swallowed.” The wine made it easier to pretend I was weaker than I was. I let my shoulders slump. I let my eyes droop. I played the part of a man fading.
Margaret’s hand brushed my cheek with something like affection, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from flinching.