He looked up. “What?”
“Why are you cleaning suitcase wheels?”
He threw the wipe away too fast. “Airport floors are disgusting.”
It was a reasonable answer. It was also the kind of answer someone gives when he has learned that technical truth works well as camouflage.
When he told you he had to leave for Dallas for three days, you felt your pulse jump.
He kissed your forehead at the door and rolled his suitcase behind him.
“Lock up,” he said. “And try to get some sleep.”
Try to get some sleep.
As if the problem were still yours.
You stood in the hallway after he left, listening to the diminishing sound of his wheels on the concrete path outside. Then the front door shut. The house settled. The silence widened.
And there it was.
That sense. Not proof. Not logic. Just the cold animal certainty that the moment had arrived.
You walked slowly into the bedroom and looked at the bed.
In daylight it was almost ordinary. Neutral duvet. Dark wood frame. Decorative pillows you had bought at Target during one of those hopeful phases when you were trying to freshen the room instead of admit the room had become hostile. But now that Miguel was gone, the mattress seemed to take on shape. Presence. A thing that had been waiting for you to stop pretending.
Your hands shook while you pulled off the bedding.
You carried the comforter to the hallway. Removed the pillows. Stripped the sheets. The smell was already there under the exposed mattress cover, fainter than at night but unmistakable. Worse near the corner. Worse along the seam.
You dragged the mattress into the middle of the room.
It was heavier than it should have been.
That detail did something awful to your heartbeat.
Not because a mattress can’t be heavy. Of course it can. But this felt imbalanced. Weighted strangely toward one end. As if something inside had shifted the center of it.
You went to the kitchen and got a box cutter from the junk drawer.
Leave a Comment