California

During the argument, at its most heated moment, she smiles and walks over to the coffee table, picks up her keys and pocketbook, gets her coat off the rack by the door and leaves. The door closes, and for my breathing, it’s almost as if she’d never been here.

Days later she calls.  She’s calm and says she’s in Philadelphia and isn’t coming back.  She says I can do whatever I want with her things.  She doesn’t need them anymore.  I ask her why and with whom and how long.  You know, things I know are useless.  She says, “I never really liked California, anyway,” and hangs up.