She glances around at the simmering water and the pasta and the chicken in the oven; she recognizes she’s entered a room that did not previously have plans to contain her and now has to expand. She opens her mouth to apologize and he, unthinking—thinking only that he doesn’t want her to be sorry, that in fact “sorry” from her tongue should be reserved for only the most capital of offenses, such as disappearing from his life forever—he takes her hand and holds it, urgently.
