Tuesday

Third in a series

It was a Tuesday when he came home to find

her luggage next to the door.

He saw her makeup case first, that little

square-shaped mystery smelling of talc and

something richer than he could afford.

 

It wasn’t a cliché, her leaving.

He wasn’t that lucky.

It was sunny.

There were birds and traffic and a school bus.

 

He looked at his hands as she spoke.

“It’s no good, Flynn.”

Her voice made his name, which he’d

always considered smooth, even daring,

sound flat and contrived.

“It’s just no good.”

He picked at a hangnail.

He didn’t trust his voice.

An airplane flew over, making the broken

window pane over the kitchen sink hum.

He’d meant to fix it but instead had patched it

with masking tape.

He hated himself for a moment, seeing his

fingerprints and the smear of dirt left behind.

He waited to hear the door close.

She was gentle, but the soft click

of the latch sounded more final

than any heated slam.