My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
“Keep it as a reminder,” he said. “To always look at what is right in front of you.”
I looked down at the watch, its steady ticking lost beneath the hum of the car’s tires on the wet asphalt.
“Where should I drop you?” I asked.
“The shelter,” he said. “I have to pack my things before I go to Maple Street.”
“It will be quiet there now,” I said.
“Quiet is what I need,” he said.
We turned onto Maple Street, past Frank’s barbershop where the red and white pole was spinning slowly behind the glass.
Christopher closed his hand over his coat lapel, his face finally peaceful.
By nine o’clock the next morning, the silence in my apartment had the weight of clean wool.
I pulled the cardboard box from the top shelf of the closet, the heavy fiberboard scraping against the plaster ceiling and letting down a thin shower of grey dust.
I set the box in the middle of the linoleum floor, where the pale autumn light from the window showed every scratch and water ring on the wood of the kitchen table.
