A million thoughts go racing

He sat at the table and smoked. The cigarette burned down slow. He didn’t tap the ash. It leaned out over the tray like it might fall. It didn’t.

She was moving around the kitchen, not speaking. The coffee pot hissed. He watched her pour, but she didn’t hand it to him. Didn’t pour two. Just one.

He looked out the window. The roses were thick this year.

She had poured the coffee without thinking. The motion was still there, but the meaning wasn’t. It wasn’t for him. She didn’t drink it either. She set her cup down.

The suitcase was zipped, sitting by the door as if it had always been there.

He hadn’t asked where she was going. She figured he wouldn’t.

“You sure?” he said.

She didn’t answer at first. Just stood there, hand on the counter like she needed it to stand.

“I’ve been sure,” she said.

He wanted to ask how long. He didn’t.

She watched the coffee steam rise and fade. It had always cooled too fast in this house.

She wanted him to ask her not to go. Not because she would’ve stayed.

He didn’t.

The baby started crying in the back room. The same cry he’d heard a hundred mornings. Hungry, maybe. Or just lonely.

He didn’t move.

“You going to get that?” he asked.

She didn’t even look at the door. “I’m not.”

She’d already picked up the baby that morning. Fed him. Changed him. Rocked him.

Now she was tired. Tired in the kind of way that sleep didn’t touch.

She let the crying go on. It didn’t last long.

Nothing did, really.

He looked at her hands. She wasn’t wearing her ring. Hadn’t in weeks, maybe longer. He hadn’t noticed.

Outside, the lawn was overgrown. He thought about mowing it.

Didn’t.

The roses were blooming. She had noticed them yesterday but hadn’t said anything. They looked like something from a better life.

“You could cut the grass,” she said.

“I could,” he said.

She didn’t push it.

She walked over to the suitcase. Picked it up like she wasn’t thinking about it.

“You leaving for good?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“You’ll want your coat,” he said.

“It’s not cold.”

“It will be.”

She stepped out the door. The air was heavy but still. No cars. No wind. Just the kind of quiet that comes after something is over.

She didn’t look back.

He could hardly bear the sight of lipstick on the cigarettes there in the ashtray. Lying cold the way she left them. But at least her lips caressed them while she packed.

Or the lip-print on a half-filled cup of coffee that she poured and didn’t drink. But at least she thought she wanted it. That’s so much more than he could say for him.

He sat at the table. Drank from her cup, mouth on the lip-print.

Cold.

He looked out the window again. The blossoms were full and red and didn’t care.

“It’s been a good year for the roses,” he said.