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Dinah

I rinse out my cereal bowl and place it in the rack beside the sink.

Joe’s plate is there, the fork from his eggs sticking out of the silverware cup.

It gives me such a sense of domestic bliss to follow his act each morning, both of us doing our part to keep our house in order, to respect each other’s time and space.

Other couples leave their dishes out, expecting the spouse to be their maid, but Joe and I have never done that.

I’m pouring coffee into a thermos when my phone buzzes. I check the display and answer it, attempting to hold it in the crook of my neck as I stack and tear open three Splenda packets. “Marino.” The phone slips and I grab it just before it hits the counter.

“Dinah, this is Lieutenant Paul Franks. I was told you’re covering homicide for Rita Perez?”

“Yep. What’s going on?” I smile at Joe as he walks by. He pauses and presses a kiss to the back of my head.

“We have a possible victim in Montebello. Address is 23 Luther Drive. There’s a couple of uniforms there now; medical and scene techs are on the way.”

I empty the packets into the thermos and motion to the fridge. My husband is already opening the door, withdrawing the half gallon of milk and passing it to me. “23 Luther Drive. Got it. I’ll head that way now.”

Joe’s gaze meets mine, and I don’t have to explain what the call is about.

In our marriage, death is a common disruption of our peace.