The Mathematics of Leaving

The orange light of sunset spilled across your empty side of the bed, exactly as it had every evening for three months. I lay there holding my iPhone like a prayer wheel, thumb hovering over your number, replaying our last conversation in my head—a circular argument that had somehow become the geometry of our ending.

You'd compared me to a cat, you said. Aloof. Temperamental. Only affectionate when convenient. The irony was lost on you—that I was the one waiting, always waiting, while you prowled through the city like some fox who'd discovered chicken coops had better security than our marriage.

The cable box blinked 12:07 AM. I should sleep. Tomorrow's presentation loomed—something about quarterly projections and market penetration, words that meant less than nothing in rooms where executives nodded like dashboard bobbleheads. Instead I watched our old home movies, the ones before the careful distance crept in, before we became two people who happened to share a lease.

In the video, you're teaching me to cook that disastrous risotto. We're laughing, covered in flour, and the camera shakes because I can't hold it still through my own giggles. You look at me like I'm the only thing worth seeing. That version of us feels like a fairy tale about strangers.

My iPhone buzzed—a notification from some dating app I'd downloaded on a particularly lonely Tuesday. 'Someone wants to connect!' it announced cheerfully, as if human connection were a customer service issue that could be resolved with prompt attention.

I deleted the app. Then I deleted your number. Then I lay back and watched the ceiling fan slice the orange darkness into ribbons, thinking how strange it was that I could miss someone who was still alive somewhere, probably sleeping in someone else's bed, probably comparing them to some other animal in some other metaphor that cut deeper than they'd ever admit.

Somewhere in the apartment, a cat yowled in the alley beneath my window, sounding beautifully, miserably alive.