And somewhere between the gas pumps, my husband wrapped his arms around me and held me so tightly I could barely breathe.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Again and again.
“I should have told you.”
I pressed my face against his shoulder.
“Yes. You should have.”
He began crying harder.
“I didn’t want you to see me differently.”
I pulled back.
“What?”
“I didn’t want you watching every little thing I forgot. Every word. Every set of keys. I didn’t want to see that expression on your face.”
“What expression?”
He looked at me.
“That one.”
I realized I must have looked terrified.
And heartbroken.
“Mark,” I whispered, “I’m looking at you like this because I love you, and you frightened me.”
He rested his forehead against mine.
I held him.
For a long time, neither of us said anything.
A stranger walked around us on his way to another car.
