He paused for a moment outside his building, mentally weighing everything he was about to say to his wife. Then he climbed the stairs and unlocked the door.
“Hi,” said Buchin. “Vera, are you home?”
I am,” his wife replied flatly. “Hi. So, should I start frying the scallops?”
Buchin had promised himself he’d act directly—confidently, decisively, like a man! He would end his double life while the kisses of his mistress still lingered on his lips, before he got sucked back into the dull routine.
“Vera,” he cleared his throat. “I came to tell you… we need to separate.”
Vera reacted more than calmly. It was hard to rattle her. Buchin used to tease her about this, calling her “Vera Coldheart.”
“What do you mean?” Vera asked from the kitchen doorway. “So… should I not cook the scallops?”
