HOUND

iii

Jack wasn't sure why she assumed he was cheating on her, because he thought she knew enough about him to know he wasn't the type to do that. He really shouldn't be surprised, because lately it had become obvious that neither of them knew each other that well. They were at a point where they couldn't understand each other, and he wondered if both their spirits had flown away and gone back to that quiet little beach house, where everything was good and everyone was happy.

"No," He sighs, defeated. He slumps further into his massive lazy-boy, and closes his eyes. His rough and quaking hands rub at his temples, and he grits his teeth to keep quiet. "But who might 'her' be, darling?"

His wife brushes her hands across the coarse fabric of her apron, her thin nostrils flaring. She had been baking bread, so her hands were covered in a mix of flour and sticky pieces of dough. Little snowflurries of flour fell softly to the hardwood floor, which only aggravated her more. She had spent too much time sweeping the floor.

There was a streak of flour on her cheek, and her hair was dusted and falling slowly out of its tight bun. Jack Hound wanted to reach other and brush the flour from her skin, and tuck her hair back in--but he knew she wouldn't let him.

"You won't even give me the respect--or have the courtesy--to acknowledge it. If you'd just admit it--" She stops, her voice halting to a stop. She swallows hard, but she chokes a little on her spit and coughs three times.

Jack makes no obvious move to answer, until she spins around on a worn-out heel and starts to rush out of the room.

"I'm not going to confess to anything I haven't done, dear." He says, lowly and quietly. He's almost monotone, refusing to stress any syllable. But she can feel how serious he is.

She nods curtly, but she doesn't believe his denial. Perhaps she doesn't even believe her own accusation, perhaps she's just looking for a way to start a conversation or find something to blame for his distance.