Something struck the front of the house and every part of me flinched at once. You didn't notice the flinch, but I did the whole thing: the heart kicked up a gear, the shoulders climbed toward the ears, the breath you were taking stopped halfway in and just sat there, waiting.
All of that from one small chime. I don't know what the sound means. I only know you decided it was a threat before you decided anything at all, and I got the memo first.
Then came the negotiation, the one I feel but never hear the words to. You froze in the middle of the room. The feet went quiet on purpose, weight shifting off the loud floorboard, and I held us both very still while you did the sum: expecting anyone? Do we exist right now or not? The stomach pulled in tight around nothing. The jaw set. For a long moment we were a held breath in socks, pretending to be furniture.
Whoever it was left. The chime didn't come again. And slowly, without you telling me to, I let the shoulders down, refilled the breath, unclenched the belly, put the heartbeat back to its ordinary quiet work. You went back to your screen like nothing happened. Nothing did happen. That was rather the point of all my effort.
I carried the fright so you'd be ready, and then I carried it away again so you wouldn't have to. I do this dozens of times a day and you have never once thanked the doorbell for teaching me how loyal I am.
Later, when you stand up: a glass of water. The throat's been dry since noon.
I've been meaning to mention it.