Man, I tried reaching out to him, but it wasn't worth the effort. He was determined to be a dick, maybe because he'd already given up on salvaging his tattered pride and had decided to try to wound me instead. Good strategy.
So there I was, walking out the door with the deed to the house wrapped in a duffel bag full of my belongings. Some pictures, one favorite book, and my passport, along with some summer clothes, and my good knives. The snow was hip-deep in the driveway, so I'd called Maggie to give me a ride to the airport. I damn sure wasn't going to shovel it again if I wasn't coming back. Joe said he'd fly me to the nearest big airport with the mail run if I brought him lunch. He knows the quality of my lunches, and that's not a euphemism, either. I had a brown paper sack for Joe in my duffel. And for Maggie, too, because I probably wasn't going to be seeing her for a long time, either.
I felt my resolve weaken as I stood in the doorway, about to abandon my own house for who knew how long, and all the familiar routines inside it. Even the fighting and the long silences, such as they were. The woodstove, the friends at the coffee shop, the down comforter with the homemade duvet cover.....why did I have to leave? He was standing behind me in the kitchen, and just as I felt my eyes tear up, he cleared his throat. I waited for it. It came.
"Honey? Wait." The voice had a question in it, and felt like a hand reaching out to grab my shoulder. A bridge past the last argument. I looked up from the door handle in front of me, but didn't turn around, just waited a second more.
He cleared his throat again. "Did you make me sandwich?"
I heard Maggie honk from the end of the driveway. Yep, time to go.
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