““He saw lights angle into the front window. He snapped off the television midreport, went to the garage and opened the door. He smiled when she came into the warmly lit room. Her hair stood on end, her nose was slightly red. Her gray eyes were stormy, a furious tempest raging in their depths. “Who’s the porcupine now,” he asked, taking her into his arms. She sighed, not rising to the tease. Her back was ramrod-straight, her muscles clenched. He ached for her, wondered if he should try to talk or take her straight to bed. Instead, her stomach rumbled loudly. “Let me make you something,” he said. “No, really. I’m okay.” Her heart wasn’t in it, she sounded decidedly absent. He released her. Ignoring her protestations, he went ahead and opened a can of soup, warmed the oven for bread. She stood woodenly at the sink, staring out into the backyard.””
