“I’ll be late,” I say. “I’ll mess up. I’ll probably leave the mugs on the windowsill until next Tuesday. But I’ll mean it. I swear to God, Tabitha. I’ll mean it until I get it right.”
That was twelve years ago. Twelve years of shared toothbrushes and silent arguments about the thermostat. Twelve years of her singing off-key while chopping onions, of me leaving coffee mugs on the windowsill until they grew a small forest of mold. We built a whole vocabulary of silence: the tightness in her jaw meaning I’m fine when she wasn’t, the way I’d tap my wedding ring against a glass meaning I’m sorry before I could say the words. tabitha stay with me
“Then let me be late,” I say. “Let me be late and awful and whatever else I’ve been. But don’t leave. Don’t get in that car. Because once you do—” My throat closes up. I swallow. “Once you do, you take everything. The good mornings. The burnt toast. The way you hum when you think no one is listening. You take all of it, and I’ll be standing in this doorway for the rest of my life, saying it to no one.” “I’ll be late,” I say