Interviews.
Celebration trips.
New meetings.
The empty spare room stayed empty.
So did the chair beside me at night.
Grant’s hands began shaking as he read the next paragraph.
You once asked why I stopped talking about the baby.
I stopped because every time I tried, your phone rang.
After a while I learned that silence hurt less than being interrupted.
Grant covered his mouth.
The anniversary cake sat untouched two feet away.
Its chocolate icing had started to soften beneath the warmth of the candles.
He remembered the bakery now.
Our second date.
I had ordered the same cake and laughed when he stole the last bite.
He had forgotten that memory until I placed it in front of him again.
And even then, he had never noticed what I was trying to do.
I wasn’t recreating dinner.
I was trying to recreate us.
He kept reading.
Tonight I gave us one last evening without telling you it was the last.
I wanted to know whether you would look at me if I stopped asking.
You didn’t.
I wanted to know whether you would put the phone down on your own.
You didn’t.
And then someone joked that I might leave.
You laughed.
You said you could always marry again.
So I’m finally going to believe you.
Grant stood so abruptly the chair scraped backward.
He grabbed my phone, then stopped.
It was useless.
He called the doorman instead.
“Did my wife leave?”
The man hesitated.
“Yes, Mr.
Hayes.”
“When?”
“Several hours ago.”
“Where did she go?”
“She asked for a car.”
“To where?”
“I wasn’t given the destination.”
Grant pressed his fingers against his forehead.
“What was she wearing?”
“Jeans.
A cream sweater.
She had a small bag.”
A small bag.
Not luggage for a vacation.
Not suitcases for a dramatic threat.
A bag small enough to carry only what mattered.
Grant looked at the letter again.
The final paragraph was short.
Do not come looking for me because you’re frightened of losing your wife.
If you come, understand that the woman you’re looking for is the one you stopped seeing long before tonight.
