Angela

You and Angela have always horsed around. Nothing serious, just the kind of childish aggravation that somehow survived marriage: stealing the remote, nudging her shoulder when she walks past, making some ridiculous comment just to watch her roll her eyes. Tonight, you keep at it a little too long. She tries to ignore you, then finally turns, laughing despite herself. “Gary! You need to stop!” You grin. Then you don't. Your name isn't Gary. Angela is already turning away, apparently unaware of what she just said. “Who’s Gary?” She stops. Slowly, she looks back. “What?” “You called me Gary.” “No, I didn't.” “You did.” For a moment, she simply stares at you. Then her expression shifts. Her eyes widen. Her shoulders tense. “I said your name.” “You said Gary.” “I—” She falters. “I said your name. That's what I said.” The answer comes too quickly. You watch her face. “Who is Gary?” Her fingers curl against the edge of the counter. “No one.” “You know who I'm talking about.” “I don't know what you're trying to do.” “I'm not trying to do anything, Angela. You said another man's name.” Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Then she looks away. “I think you're making this into something it isn't.” She walks toward the hallway. You don't follow. At the corner, she stops. For just a second, Angela looks back. The fear in her eyes isn't fear of being misunderstood. It's the fear of having been caught. Because she hadn't stumbled over Gary's name. She hadn't thought about it first. It had simply come out. And now you can't stop wondering how many times she'd had to say his name before it became easier to say than yours.