Page 70 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

The kitchen seemed to whisper with the noise that the table and dishes had made, even after it had all settled, and the two of us stared at each other. Like a silent echo. A ghost of a memory being implanted in the walls of the room. Waiting to replay itself in the corners of our minds anytime we’d enter the kitchen in the future.

This is where our marriage came crashing to an end.

“Enzo,” Peter exhaled the word.

I said nothing. I turned, silently left the kitchen, and went upstairs.

Later, well after the sun had set and I was certain that Peter would not be sharing our bed, he crept into our room. As I lay in bed and stared at the wall, as I had been doing for the hours since dinner had finished with a bang, he changed into his pajamas silently. My husband slid under the covers, curled up on his side, turned to face the wall, and fell asleep.

It was a sleepless night for me.

Like Toast Soldiers

The following morning, a Saturday, I slid out of bed as the sun peeked over the horizon and slipped into the bathroom. Peter continued to sleep as I showered and dressed, and I did my best not to wake him. I packed a bag with several changes of clothes and necessary toiletries, including my fresh bottle of medication. I stood in our bedroom doorway, the bag in hand, and stared at my husband lying in bed, curled up and sleeping peacefully. His alarm would go off in a half-hour and he would expect to start his weekend.

After saying my silent thoughts, I slipped down the back stairwell quietly to the kitchen. Peter had meticulously cleaned up the mess I had made when I’d flipped the table the night before. I set my suitcase by the backdoor and rolled up my sleeves. As quickly as I could, I soft-boiled eggs and made toast soldiers. I cut up some fruit in a bowl. Carefully, I set the kitchen table for Peter’s breakfast and started the coffee. I cracked and removed the tops of Peter’s eggs for him since he could never do it well. He would be awake any moment.

It was time for me to leave.

I retrieved my bottle of medication from my suitcase, tapped one out into my hand, and stuffed it in my mouth. I titled my head under the kitchen sink faucet for a drink of water and swallowed it down. The second most important part of my Saturday was complete.

I pulled my keys from my pocket, removed the house and car keys from the ring, and laid them gently on the table next to Peter’s prepared plate. I lifted my suitcase, gave the kitchen one last, emotionless look, and slipped out the backdoor, making sure it locked behind me.

There was no need to leave a note. Shoot off a text.

My keys by his plate would tell Peter all he needed to know.

I’m a failed husband. I know that. Here’s your life—your freedom—back.

Walking through a neighborhood such as Peter’s with a suitcase would have drawn attention if it hadn’t been so early on a weekend morning. The large houses passed as I stared straight ahead, making my way out of the neighborhood. I continued to walk until I got to the bus stop closest to our house, in an industrialized area of town.

I had no friends I felt close enough to call.

Can I stay at your place?

The thought actually made me laugh as I sat on a corner bench and set my suitcase down, letting it lean against my shins.

There were some work friends I could have probably called who would have taken pity on me, but I never liked mixing business and my life. I’d made a few casual friends here and there in the time I’d lived in America, but none so close that I felt comfortable reaching out to them, either. I had no family—even if I hadn’t moved to America. I had no one in Minneapolis to turn to and ask to take me in now that I’d made my decision about my marriage.

So, I slid my phone from my pocket and pressed the contact for the person I’d phoned dozens or even hundreds of times in the last year.

It was too early in the morning to be bothering any friend, even a close one, but I had no other options. I’d never had close friends to know the proper protocol or what to expect when reaching out to one. Not having my call answered was what I’d expected. However, the phone only rang twice before it was picked up on the other end.

Before the “hello?” finished echoing through the phone, the tears trailed from my eyes and the story poured from my mouth. I’m unsure how long I sat on the city bench, crying and wailing into the phone, but my eyes could no longer produce tears when I was done. Gasping for breath and sniffling, I went silent, wondering if I’d been hung up on. However, a voice finally interrupted my thoughts.

“Are you safe?” Alex asked. “Where you are now?”

I looked around. Minneapolis had not come alive yet so early on a weekend morning, but there was nothing to indicate that I was in danger.

“Y-yes,” I stammered.

“Give me twenty minutes.”

And then he hung up. So, I pulled my knees up to my chest, resting my feet on the bench, and waited for him to call me back.

A Grocery Store

Present Day