Claire was waiting on the back deck when he came down. She had poured two glasses of wine and wasn't drinking hers. The deck light was off. The only light came from the kitchen window behind them and the green glow of the neighbors' pool through the fence slats.
He didn't sit. He stood at the rail with his back to her and looked out at the yard, at the flat pale face of the oak stump, and waited.
She started by telling him it wasn't what it sounded like. She got about halfway through and stopped, because they both heard it. Then she was quiet for a long time. When she spoke again her voice had changed. It was lower, without the brightness she had worn all evening like a borrowed coat, and she told him it was exactly what it sounded like. She told him she was sorry. She said it several times, and each time sounded like a person throwing something too small at a fire.
He asked one question. He asked who.