“That’s sad.”
“What would it be like?” he asked.
He turned off the flame. The silence that followed was the loudest sound of the whole summer—louder than the Fourth of July fireworks over the inlet, louder than the gulls fighting over a crab shell. He set the pot aside and leaned against the sink, wiping his hands on a dishrag that used to be a towel. We-ll Always Have Summer
In the morning, I packed my bag. He made coffee. We stood in the kitchen, two people wearing the same regret like a borrowed shirt.
Or so I told myself.
“We’ll figure it out,” I said.
“You were thinking it.”
“You know I can’t,” I said.