Fallout

The mug had been his first gift to her. It was plain ceramic with a drawing of a stereotypical fifties woman holding a cup of coffee. Under the drawing, were the words, “If this mug is still full, shut the fuck up.” Every morning, she dug it out of the mountain of dishes drying in the rack and stuck it under the spout of her coffee maker. Then she would step into the shower. Like clockwork, five minutes in, he would join her. They would wash each other, still blinking the sleep out of their eyes.

It was a Tuesday morning. She started her coffee and her shower, but he didn’t join her. Just as well. She couldn’t help but notice his shirt, collar smeared with unfamiliar lipstick, relaxing in the hamper.

The apartment was a mess. In the living room, the coffee table was on its side. A picture frame lay on the floor, the spot where it had hung a dark square against the sun-bleached wall.

In her bathrobe, she walked to the kitchen to get her coffee. He was sitting at the table already dressed. The Times was open on the table in front of him. She walked over for a kiss, but he didn’t lift his head. She kissed his forehead.

“Do you have an early meeting?” she asked. She crossed her arms.

Her coffee was still dripping and gurgling into the mug.

He shook his head.

“No.”

“You’re ready early,” she said.

He turned a page. “I know.”

Her coffee had finished brewing. She walked around the table to get it, but turned back to him instead.

“Will you be back late?”

He looked at her.

She smelled like soap and her hair was wrapped in a towel. Her skin was damp and her eyes were red.

“I’m not coming back,” he said.

She looked at the patch of darkness on the wall and nodded. She noticed the black leather duffle back she had bought him resting by the door, full. She imagined it smelled like that girl’s perfume, just like all the clothes he had worn home the last two months. She wanted it out of the house.

She blinked. “Good,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

It sounded as insincere as the first four hundred times he had said it.

“Are you moving in with her?”

He started folding the Times. He pushed his chair back from the table, the wooden legs screeching against the linoleum.

“Are you?” she asked again.

He stood up. He walked towards the door.

She followed him.

“Are you?”

He bent to pick up the duffle bag. He straightened and began to turn the door knob.

Her voice was quiet.

“Are you?”

He paused, doorknob halfway turned.

And he left, duffle in one hand, the Times in the other.

She stood in her bathrobe. Her skin was dry, and in the kitchen, her coffee had grown cold.