What We Left Behind

The refrigerator hummed its empty song as I stared at the container of wilted spinach, blackening at the edges like a bruise. Three weeks since you left, and I still hadn't cleaned out the things you'd bought for that dinner we never made—the one where you were supposed to tell me about her, and I was supposed to pretend I didn't already know.

Barnaby, your terrier mix with the uneven ears, pressed his warm weight against my leg. He'd been sleeping in my bed since you moved out, curled in the space where your body used to be. You said you couldn't take him to the new place—she was allergic, wasn't that convenient? But really, we both knew Barnaby had always loved me more. He chose me in the shelter that day, not you. I suppose that should have been a sign.

I dumped the spinach into the trash, watching it fall among the other evidence of our life together: takeout containers, expired coupons, the glass bowl from the goldfish we won at that carnival two years ago. The fish had lasted three days before floating to the top, bloated and surreal. You'd cried when you found it, pressed your face against my chest and said, 'I don't know how to keep things alive.' I'd kissed your forehead and told you it was just a fish, but I know now you were trying to tell me something else.

Barnaby whined at the door, and I let him out into the backyard where the overgrown garden choked on its own abundance. Wild spinach had sprung up between the cracked pavers—ironic how the things we neglect thrive while the things we tend wither. I watched him sniff at the places where you used to stand smoking in the evenings, your back to the house, your phone glowing in your palm like a secret heart.

Tomorrow I would call you about the dog. You'd say you couldn't take him, and I'd say I knew, I'd keep him. We would both pretend it was about logistics instead of the slow realization that Barnaby was the only honest thing between us. He'd never lied about where he wanted to be.

I closed the refrigerator door, and for the first time in weeks, the kitchen felt like mine again. Empty, yes. But quiet in a way it hadn't been in years.