“Who’s hand is it?” he managed to spit out. Confusion pouring out of his eyes.

She barely spoke above a whisper. “It doesn’t really matter now, does it?”. The conversation seemed perfectly logical, flowing with the rhythm of cleaning the dishes.

Delusion grasping for some form of logic bombarded his existence. A neighbors dog put it…. Gang members had to have…. The mob was sending a message…. ALIENS … Failed suicide…. Masochistic mailman…. NRA membership drive…. her

His thoughts ran away with any possible reason. None logical, none offering any peace. He hated her calm, her simulated calm, she knew, she had to know. By saying nothing, she admitted to everything. Condemned, convicted, hung, and buried all in the infinite period between logic.

He was done. Two could play at this game.