Michael left on a Sunday night, as usual, without many words. He set his suitcase by the door, the dark blue carry-on with the frayed handle Anna had given him for their third wedding anniversary. Back then, she still picked out gifts with meaning.
She would imagine his surprise, his smile, the way he might pull her close and say she knew him better than anyone. That suitcase had traveled across half the country since then. Its corners were scuffed.
The zipper on the side pocket had not closed right in a long time. Michael promised to get it fixed every time he noticed it, and every time, he forgot. He put on his shoes, stood up straight, and patted his pockets out of habit.
Phone. Keys. Wallet.
He looked at a spot somewhere past Anna, toward the mirror in the hallway, and said, “All right, I’m heading out. I’ll be back Friday. Maybe sooner.
I’ll call you when I land.”
Anna nodded. He leaned in and brushed her cheek in passing, the way a person stamps a document before sliding it into a file. She smelled his cologne, the one with the warm woody notes she bought him every year for Christmas because, seven years ago, he had mentioned once that he liked it.
He had said it exactly one time. Since then, she bought it. Since then, he wore it.
He never asked about it again. He never thanked her for remembering. He simply grabbed the bottle from the bathroom shelf the way a person grabs a toothbrush.
The apartment door closed. The deadbolt clicked. Anna stood in the hallway, listening to his footsteps move down the stairs.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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