No whip pan. No extra angle. No extra spoken line after that sentence.
The close-up holds.
Greg’s clean-shaven face is the face of a man who read a newspaper through a week he should have spent emptying a chair. Behind him the living room continues: window light, floor lamp, beige sofa, muted news, a woman in a gray cardigan who does not own that dress, a child who asked if she looked pretty and was told she looked beautiful and then told the truth because the truth was how she understood the costume.
His mouth stays open around the three words.
The champagne satin stays at the edge of the frame.
The iron, out of the shot and still in the house, keeps making steam as if steam could press a Saturday back into shape.
That is the last frame.