What the Dog Knew
The morning sun burned through my palm as I leaned against the kitchen counter, watching Marcus measure out his vitamins like they were some kind of scientific ritual.
"You're running again?" he asked, not looking up from his neat little row of supplements.
"I always run on Tuesdays."
"Not anymore. Not since..." He let it hang there, the unfinished sentence floating between us like the dust motes in the light we never cleaned from the windows.
Buster, our dog, nudged my hand with his wet nose. He'd been doing that lately—seeking me out, pressing his warm weight against my leg whenever Marcus entered the room. Animals sensed what we refused to speak.
"I found something in your jacket yesterday," I said, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears.
Marcus froze. The vitamin C capsule hovered between his fingers. "What did you find?"
"Lipstick. On the collar. And receipts from hotels in Midtown."
Buster whined softly, pressing harder against my thigh.
"The client meetings—"
"Do not lie to me. Not anymore." I pushed away from the counter, my legs already moving toward the door. "I'm going for my run."
"Theo, wait—"
But I was already out the door, my feet hitting the pavement in a rhythm that matched the pounding in my chest. Running used to be about fitness, about endurance, about controlling something when everything else felt chaotic. Now it was escape.
I ran until my lungs burned, until the morning dew on my palm had turned to sweat, until I couldn't feel the betrayal anymore—just the raw, honest pain of muscles pushed beyond their limit.
When I finally returned, hours later, Marcus was gone. His vitamins were still lined up on the counter in their perfect little rows, a monument to the meticulous life he'd pretended we had.
Buster met me at the door, tail wagging slowly, as if he understood something fundamental had shifted in the universe of our home. I knelt down and buried my face in his golden fur, letting the animal comfort wash over me.
"I know," I whispered into his warm coat. "I know."