There was the fact that he
had been disengaged. That
he was in love with
someone else.
That the laundry was on.
That I hadn’t written any of this.
That the vacation
had just whizzed by. That I was
out of breath from six flights.
This is not a justification of any
kind. It’s been nice, all in all.
I’ve just sort of grown to
accept it.
Clouds deepening, a quiet
I’m not used to. Clothes
into the dryer. I tried calling
the number at 1110 N. Monroe
and it had been disconnected.
Humidity unbelievable.
Now I bet he was right,
although I am a bit curious.
According to what I’ve heard,
he’d been talking about splitting.
A pink box sits on the
third shelf up from
the bottom. Underneath
the pajamas. I wonder
what’s in it, though I
already know; I know
what an experiment this
life can be.
