What the Dog Knows

Mara stood at the kitchen counter, chopping spinach with mechanical precision. The leaves were already wilting—much like her marriage, she thought, then immediately hated herself for the cliché.

Barnaby, their golden retriever, sat by his bowl, whining. He'd been doing that all week, since David returned from Chicago. The dog knew. Animals always knew before you did themselves.

The front door opened. David's key in the lock, familiar and terrible.

"Hey," he called from the hallway. "Smells good."

"Spinach salad," she said. Her voice sounded steady. She was proud of that.

He appeared in the doorway, loosening his tie. Gray at his temples now, laugh lines that she once loved. In the kitchen light, she saw it again—what she'd been pretending she hadn't noticed for days.

An orange hair clinging to his charcoal blazer.

Not hers. Hers were dark brown, straight, stubborn. This was bright and coarse and impossible.

"Rough day," David said, opening the fridge. He grabbed an orange, began peeling it with his thumbnail. Citrus scent filled the room, cloying and sharp.

"David."

"Hmm?" He looked up, juice on his fingers. Innocent. Or so good at this that he seemed innocent.

"Your jacket."

He paused. A fraction of a second too long before continuing to peel the orange.

"What about it?"

"There's a hair. Orange."

The kitchen went quiet. Even Barnaby stopped whining.

"Oh," David said. "That's probably from Anna's dog. She brings him to the office sometimes."

Anna. The new associate. Twenty-four, with carrot-colored hair and an internship Mara had helped her get.

"Anna's dog is white," Mara said.

David stood very still. The orange peel hung from his hand like something wounded.

"Mara."

"I don't want to know," she heard herself say. "I just want you to stop lying to me."

"I'm not—"

"The dog knew before I did," she said. "Barnaby's been miserable since you got back. He can smell her on you."

David's shoulders slumped. Something broke in his face—relief, almost, that it was finally out.

Outside, the last of the spinach sat limply on the cutting board. The orange section in David's hand looked bright and strange, like something from another life.

"What happens now?" he asked quietly.

Mara looked at Barnaby, who had rested his head on his paws, watching them.

"I don't know," she said. "But I can't eat this dinner."