What the Dog Knew

Margaret found the receipt in his hat band. A felucca ride in Luxor, three weeks ago, when David was supposed to be at a conference in Birmingham. She stood in their bedroom, holding his fedora like evidence at a crime scene, their old golden retriever Barnaby watching from his bed with those knowing eyes.

She'd made spinach lasagna tonight — David's favorite, or so she'd believed for twenty-two years. The remnants congealed on their plates, a green and white mess she now couldn't stomach. Downstairs, the shower started. David would emerge smelling of Egyptian sand and hotel soap, expecting dinner, expecting her.

Barnaby had been acting strange for weeks. Margaret realized now: he'd sensed it before she did. Animals know when their humans become strangers. Dogs don't lie.

The sphinx had stared at her from the bedside table for years — a small alabaster figurine David's mother had given them, supposedly symbolizing wisdom and protection. Margaret had always found its enigmatic smile charming. Now it seemed mocking, complicit.

David appeared in the doorway, towel around his waist, hair wet. "Penny for your thoughts, Madge."

She held up the hat. He went still, then crumbled.

"Her name's Amira," he said. "She works at the British Museum. We met when I took the sphinx there for authentication."

So even the sphinx was a lie. Margaret felt strangely calm, like she'd stepped outside herself and was watching a stranger's marriage dissolve.

"You know what's funny?" she said. "I was going to tell you tonight. I got the offer. The fellowship in Prague. I was waiting until after dessert."

The spinach lasagna sat between them, untouched, like a marriage that had looked nourishing from the outside but had gone cold within.