The Architecture of Leaving

The palm tree outside our bedroom window had stopped swaying. That's what I noticed first—the stillness of it, like it was holding its breath too.

"You're being stubborn as a bull," Marcus said, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He was exhausted. We both were.

I was folding his spinach-colored dress shirts—the ones I'd teased him about looking like a charter school counselor in—and placing them in the cardboard box that would become his life elsewhere. The irony wasn't lost on me. I'd cooked fresh spinach for dinner three nights ago, trying to be the kind of wife who packed nutrients into shared meals even when our emotional sustenance had run dry months ago. Now those same shirts were leaving, and the spinach in the crisper drawer would rot before I remembered to throw it out.

Milo, the cat we'd adopted during that hopeful month in quarantine, sat on the windowsill watching us. He'd chosen Marcus's lap tonight, which felt like betrayal until I realized Milo was simply practical. He knew who was leaving.

"Remember the baseball game?" Marcus asked suddenly.

I did. Our third date. A minor league stadium on a Tuesday night, box seats his company had given him. We'd gotten drunk on overpriced beer and kissed when the mascot fired t-shirts into the crowd. It was uncomplicated then—nothing like the game we'd been playing lately, where every conversation was an at-bat and someone always struck out.

"I remember," I said.

"We were happy then."

"We were drunk then."

He laughed, short and sharp. "Same difference."

The box was sealed. The palm tree still wasn't moving. I realized then that endings don't arrive as dramatic explosions—some of them just pack their belongings in spinach-colored shirts and walk out while you watch, wondering when the air became too thick to breathe.

"Goodbye, Marcus," I said to the closed door.

The cat jumped down and walked toward me. Outside, the palm tree finally caught the wind, and everything kept moving exactly as it had before, only smaller.