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quiet poured into his ears, magnifying every sound,
And then, after she’d gone, he’d packed that memory up, along with everything else he could, and left it behind in the house they’d once shared.
No sign of her anywhere here. Signs of her everywhere here.
morning light slowly tints the grayscale world.
All the traces of people trying to explain the world to themselves, trying to explain themselves to each other.
She began to learn: there was no new thing under the sun.
It was as if those words were their own independent creatures, off leading their own life—which,
But breathing together, breathing the same air—it’s actually kind of beautiful.
they’d loved him so fiercely it had made them dangerous.
Maybe, she thinks, this is simply what living is: an infinite list of transgressions that did not weigh against the joys but that simply overlaid them, the two lists mingling and merging, all the small moments that made up the mosaic of a person, a relationship, a life.
