In the Dead of Winter, When Chicago’s Wind Cut Like Glass and the Snow Felt Personal, I Opened the Door to a Storm That Wasn’t Just Outside the House, but Inside My Marriage, and by the Time the Streetlamp Across the Street Stopped Buzzing, Nothing Between Us Was Going to Survive the Night

“I don’t think,” I interrupted, following him. “I know.”

He stopped mid-step. The room felt smaller suddenly, like the walls had shifted closer without warning.

“Claire,” he said slowly, “don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” I repeated. “Mark, I saw you.”

He took a sip of his drink, avoiding my eyes. “You’re overreacting.”