her husband is…where? He doesn’t tell Cora when he won’t be home. So this evening she makes dinner as usual and as six-thirty turns to seven, as the melted cheese topping on a feta and spinach bake starts to resolidify, she waits. Waits for his key in the lock, waits to see what his mood will be. Her mind pitter-patters around the idea that, this time, he might be dead.
