Stuck

You know how I knew? Two coffee circles on the glass table when I came home from work. I saw them, ignored them, but they stuck. You never mentioned them. I knew. I wasn’t going to say anything. I’d brought you sunflowers, and I sat them there next to the coffee stains, looked for two seconds, just to the point before it registered. The sunflowers were because I’d done something terrible the night before—I think it was the night we went out drinking at The Blues and I told you I wished you’d died.

A week later, a sofa pillow lying on the floor, which I also managed to ignore. A bare footprint on the dust in the laundry room, too big to be either of ours.

I walked around the city feeling sick, pretending I didn’t know why. One day I got hit by a car. I never told you, and I remember it now only hazily, like something that happened when I was drunk. It was mid-afternoon, but maybe I was drunk, I don’t know. I rolled right up onto the hood of the car and laid there looking up at the sky. It was so blue, so clear.