He had started to spit when he spoke, tongue catching on sharp syllables, and she had been disoriented: unable to access their shared moral code, which, since his confession, had become tarnished, soiled, and no longer available to her. Since he had confessed, much had become unavailable, and her life—their life—was like walking a familiar path after an earthquake, a bridge of rotted wood: questioning every step. As they fought, she tried to make sense of the feeling that they had not lived a truthful life.
</3 real
