I go down hard, but Andrew’s voice on the machine loosens something that was tight inside me, a dry sponge in water. “Hi, babe,” I say, full of relief, as if he can hear me. Sprawled on the plank floor, craning away from the puppy’s exuberant tongue kisses, I rub my sore knee and listen to my husband say, “Dash? Hello, are you there?” I start to get up, but his tone changes. “I know you’re there.” He’s annoyed, so I stay where I am. Andrew is mad at me? I have really whacked my knee, and now I’m seeing it as his fault. “Dash, answer the phone, please.” He sighs. What a martyr. Oh, what he has to put up with. “We said we’d talk this evening,” he reminds me. I can hear classical music in the background; I picture him in his big chair in the living room, feet up on the ottoman, enjoying his record collection without interruptions. He must be having a ball without me. “Dash, would you please pick up the phone?” Again I start to get up, but he heaves another piteous sigh and I change my mind.
