I am a good wife. I tell myself this at dinner, the way I tell myself other things — quietly, without much conviction, hoping repetition will make it true. My name is Nandi Dlamini. I have been married to Thabo Nkosi for three years. He is a good man. Steady, warm, the kind of husband women point to when they are explaining what a good husband looks like. I know this. I have always known this. What I have not always known how to manage is his brother. Sipho Khumalo sits across the dinner table from me, and he is not looking at his plate. I notice it the way you notice a sound that shouldn't be there — gradually, then all at once. Thabo is talking about something, a problem at work, his voice easy and familiar filling the room. Ayanda Zulu, a woman from Thabo's social circle who laughs at everything he says, leans in from her seat beside him. I am nodding, lifting my fork, doing everything a present wife does. And Sipho is watching me. Not glancing. Watching. He is lean the way a person is lean when they move a lot and forget to eat — long-limbed, dark-skinned, with a jaw that always looks like it's holding something back. His eyes are very still. That is what gets me every time, the stillness in them, the way they don't dart or shift the way most people's do when they're caught. He is not caught. He is simply looking. I reach for my glass. Thabo's phone buzzes beside his plate and he checks it, laughing at whatever he sees, tilting the screen toward Ayanda. I watch Sipho's hand stay flat on the table. His own phone is face-down and has not moved once since we sat down. Thabo says something funny and everyone laughs, including me, a half-second late. Sipho does not laugh. He watches me laugh. I set my glass down and make myself look at my plate. The rice is going cold. I have eaten almost none of it. I count to five and look up again, certain he will have moved on, certain I imagined the weight of it. His eyes do not move away, and I stop breathing. ---