After that, I started leaving my things at his apartment, instead of relying on an overnight bag. A toothbrush in his medicine cabinet. Face wash beneath the sink. A loofah in the shower. Change of clothes in his bottom drawer. Every time he noticed another item, he looked, if only for a second, like the men I’d loved before: cornered and concerned. But he never said anything, never told me I’d gotten the wrong idea, that my stuff, my life, wasn’t welcome beside his.
