My husband ended our future while I was stirring his favorite chili.
With his coat still on and the radio playing, he stood in our kitchen like a stranger,
waiting for me to understand what he had already decided.
But when I finally turned around, the question I asked made him reach slowly into his pocket for the trut…
“How long have you known?” I asked. He pulled out a folded lease and laid it beside the grocery list. An apartment across town.
His signature at the bottom. Dated Monday. I looked at the list beneath it: coffee, onions, the cereal he liked.
On Monday, he had asked me to buy enough for two weeks.
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he said. I switched off the burner. Neither of us moved toward the table.
He offered to stay until morning, as though that would be a kindness. I told him I would rather he left. After the door closed, I stood over the pot with two bowls in my hands. Then I put one back. I ate slowly, without tasting much, and called my sister before I could decide not to. “Can you come over?” I asked. She didn’t ask why. She said she was finding her keys.
