Page 252 of Mario

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I know he can be ruthless.

I know he has violence in him.

And I know almost nothing else.

What am I supposed to do with that?

Ask him?

How?

How does a person ask a man if he murdered his wife?

There is no version of that conversation that does not destroy whatever tentative thing we have.

If he did not do it, and I ask, he would be offended.

No.

Hurt.

Maybe furious.

Whatever trust there is between us would fracture instantly, and I would deserve it.

And if he did do it?

My stomach churns hard enough that I press a hand against it.

The nausea rolls through me again, sudden and sharp.

I close my eyes and breathe through my nose.

That is another thing.

The sickness.

I have not been able to shake it.

I woke up Sunday morning feeling off, queasy and lightheaded, my stomach unsettled before I even got out of bed. I blamed the rich food because I’m not used to it. Then the nerves.

Then I blamed the articles.

I swallow hard and keep my hand pressed to my stomach, praying for it to pass.

It does not.

I lower my hand from my stomach and look at my computer.

The report is still open.

Quarterly something. Internal something. Words I should absolutely care about because they are probably important and I am being paid an obscene retainer to care about them.

Instead, I open a new tab.

I stare at the search bar for too long.

Then I type:Nausea, lightheaded, no fever, stress

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