were evidence.
“Stay here,” he said.
Then he stood and walked out of the theater.
I stared after him.
Owen did not confront people.
Owen did not complain.
Owen would rather endure almost anything than risk making another person uncomfortable.
Four minutes later, he returned.
And he wasn’t alone.
But to understand why those four minutes mattered so much, you have to understand my husband.
And what it had taken for us to get inside that theater at all.
Owen is thirty-eight years old and one of the gentlest people I have ever known.
I don’t mean weak.
He’s six-foot-two, works construction, and can carry a sheet of drywall up a staircase by himself.
But he avoids confrontation almost instinctively.
On our third date, he ordered a medium-rare steak.
It arrived completely overcooked.
He looked disappointed for half a second.
Then he ate every bite.
“Your steak is wrong,” I
whispered.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s practically gray.”
“It’s still good.”
When the waiter asked whether everything was okay, Owen smiled.
“Perfect. Thanks.”
After the waiter walked away, I stared at him.
