I checked out of the motel at 2 AM. I drove home, speeding through red lights. When I unlocked the front door, the house smelled of lemon polish and lasagna. The silence was heavy.
I found her asleep on the sofa, clutching one of my shirts. She jumped when I touched her shoulder, eyes wide with panic. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t get to the windows.”
[readalso]
I fell to my knees. I didn’t say a word about the cameras. I just buried my face in her lap and wept. I told her the business trip was cancelled, that I was an idiot, that I saw her.