It is a misnomer to say that they have buried the hatchet, as that would imply an intention of keeping it in the ground. The tell-tale thing beats under the floorboards, right below their bed, while the air is thick with taciturnity. The hatchet is the only thing willing to spill guts. They sit about one body’s width apart, sinking into the mattress.
“I’m sorry,” she says, stroking a lock of hair back so she can look at him without turning her head. Her mouth is dry. Her words come like molasses,
but his are a pitch drop. “I know.”