I had imagined this moment differently during the twenty minutes between calling the police and hearing the elevator doors open. Maybe the satisfaction of seeing Michael forced to confront reality. That had passed somewhere around hour twelve of my workday. The kind that comes from looking at someone you have loved for years and realizing you no longer understand the story they have been telling themselves. The officer asked Michael to open the door.
Michael did. The condo looked almost exactly as it had that morning. A vase my mother had given me was moved from the living room to the hallway closet. Linda’s purse sat on the kitchen island. There was a carton of tea on the counter that I didn’t buy. But together they created the unmistakable feeling that someone had begun rearranging my home around my absence. My work desk stood near the windows overlooking the city.
