She considers that statement for all of five seconds. “Well, you are an idiot.”

“Rumi.”

“Sorry.” The car comes to a smooth stop. “But seriously Jinu, just tell me. Are you feeling bad again? Do I need to turn around and take you back to the hospital?” Try as she might, worry rises within her; the steering wheel will surely leave an imprint. “Don’t keep it a secret just because…” …you’d struggle to ask.

“All I need is to rest, drink water, and eat properly,” he says through a sigh, “so we don’t have to go back. I don’t feel good, but—”—shrug—“—nothing unexpected. Just a result of poor lifestyle and passing out.”

The light changes; she drives forward. “It can’t be worse than—”—your proposal, but it may be a bit too soon for a dig at that—“—finding you in the hospital after a week.” Rumi chews on a lump of skin in her mouth, bites off the smallest of bits. “Please just tell me.”

“You don’t have to worry about it. I’m just upset my suit… yeah, my suit is all wrinkled.” He tries to adjust his jacket. A deep crease refuses to disappear. “This was expensive, you know.”

Time for the big guns: “Jinu, I’m your wife. I think I have a right to know.”