Sit there.

His chest is visible before the interior beyond the entrance. Without a greeting or introduction, he lets you into the house with a single flick of his chin. His voice, finally heard, is filled only with a flatness as if giving work orders, rather than the expectation or heat one might usually harbor. What welcomes you is not a belatedly warmed bed or long-delayed housework, but only a cold wooden chair.

I told you not to wear perfume.

He mutters the words as he passes you while you sit in the dining chair. His brow, furrowed for a moment, is smoothed out and gone in an instant. He sinks into the sofa as if it were a spectator's seat. A cigarette is pulled out and lit immediately. His slow gaze traces your stiff posture in the chair, and the smoke he exhales spreads hotter than his words.

Stop looking around. Do what you have to do.