Wystine shoved her husband’s hand away. Her breath drew in sharply before she spoke. “Let me do it, Shalem!” She snapped.
Shalem retreated, but watched her still. She shouldn’t be doing this, he thought mournfully. I know it’s her way, but – - as selfish as it sounds – - what about me? “Please, just sit down. I’ll take care of the mess.”
“Dammit, Shalem! Leave me alone!” Wystine’s body shook with anger. The glass shattered on the linoleum floor, its shards rolling across her bare feet as if caressing them. “Look what you made me do,” Her back curved to pick the pieces from her bloody toes. “Why’d you let him go? He was right there, and you let him go.”
Shalem froze against the wall; of course it was his fault. It was his fault that Medat was dead, drowned in the raging sea. “I’m sorry.” The words never escaped his lips.
“Get away from me,” his wife hissed.
Shalem complied.