The woman...

The woman worked hard to maintain her composure. The last thing she wanted was for him to see her cry. "Men make mistakes too, but it takes a lot more for them to admit it, especially to themselves," she mused.

Her tousled hair clung in sweaty strips to the side of her face as she hefted the forty pound sac of flour over her shoulder. Making her way into the kitchen she could see that he had realized her trespasses while she was out. The earthenware bowls she adored so much lay smashed to bits in one corner of the room. Furniture was pushed out of place, as if he couldn't decide where to vent his fury so he ultimately paced back and forth, knocking and punching the tables as he moved.

"Well," she thought, "this day was bound to come. I should have been better prepared for it, or long gone." He stood, intently studying her face, and trying to unclench his fists, expecting her to give up some half-hearted explanation and then to beg for his forgiveness.

She did neither. She only began to straighten out the mess and silently, secretly, formulate a better plan for next time.