It was five twenty seven in the morning when it happened. That was two days ago.
Three days ago I was sitting in our home mending his pants. Threading the needle I wondered about The Bad News he had yet to share since I'd missed his call. Every new stitch into the fabric was a reinforcement, everything is fine, everything is fine. I had to stop worrying and trust him, I thought, tying off the knot.
Five days ago I was cleaning our new house. It was our first full week there, the first week of dishes and dirty floors and ironing his shirts (but not the fights, forget about the fights, forget abut crying in the bathroom all night). I packed his travel bag for his weekend trip; he would be visiting his parents. Three shirts, two pants, three pairs of boxers, chargers, toiletries, but why would he need his cologne?
Six, seven, and eight days ago, we were making up and making up and making up again. He said he was sorry (he said it too much). He said he'd never leave me (but he tried to make you leave him). He said he was crazy about me (but he said that it wasn't enough). We made up in our new home, and I believed him.
It was five twenty seven in the morning when he called. The reception was poor in the house, so I walked outside in the morning dark. He was driving back from his weekend trip. He told me everything (and you knew that it was coming).
The day after he left me would have been our anniversary.