The Geometry of Leaving

The last thing Marcus expected to find in his husband's suitcase was a pyramid.

Not a metaphor. An actual three-inch pyramid carved from lapis lazuli, cool against his palm as he stood in their bedroom, surrounded by half-packed boxes. They'd spent two weeks in Egypt last spring—supposedly rekindling something that had been flickering out for years. Now he wondered if Richard had bought it during one of those solo morning walks he'd taken, leaving Marcus alone in hotel rooms with nothing but his iphone and a steadily growing pit in his stomach.

"I'm taking the cat," Richard called from the hallway.

Marcus set the pyramid down on the dresser. "You hate Bastet. You're allergic."

"I'll get shots." Richard appeared in the doorway, wearing that ridiculous fedora he'd bought in Cairo. Marcus had told him it made him look like a dismissive version of Indiana Jones, but Richard had worn it every day since they returned, as if the hat contained some version of himself he preferred over the man Marcus had married.

The cat wound between Richard's ankles, purring traitorously.

"This is about Sarah, isn't it?" Marcus said, his voice flat. "The assistant you hired three months ago. The one who laughs at your corporate pyramid scheme jokes."

Richard's jaw tightened. "She's an administrative coordinator. And she listens."

"I listened. For twelve years."

"You heard, Marc. You never listened."

The cable dangling from the wall charger caught Marcus's eye—Richard's iphone cable, fraying at the connector because he never took care of anything. Marcus had replaced it three times. Had bought him hats for winter, took care of the cat they'd both wanted, had built this life around Richard's ambitions while his own gathered dust like forgotten furniture.

He picked up the pyramid again. "What does it mean?"

"What?"

"The pyramid. You bought it in Egypt. Why?"

Richard looked at the hat in his hands, running his thumb along the brim. "I wanted something solid. Something that lasts. Our whole lives, everything's been... transient. Jobs, cities, us." He looked up, eyes wet. "I thought if I brought something home that was thousands of years old, maybe some of that permanence would stick."

Marcus almost laughed. Instead, he set the pyramid down gently, precisely. "You bought an artifact to fix us."

"I didn't know how else to fix it."

Marcus picked up his own phone, scrolled through the contacts. His brother would let him stay on the couch. His sister had a spare room. Somewhere to figure out who he was when he wasn't Richard's husband.

"Take the cat," Marcus said. "She likes you better anyway."

"Marcus—"

"Go. Before I change my mind."

Later, standing alone in the apartment with the boxes and the silence, Marcus placed the pyramid on the windowsill where it caught the last light of day. Lapis lazuli blue as a bruise, sharp and ancient and completely indifferent to human heartbreak.

Some things did last. That was the problem.