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The last time I saw her was in the parking lot after couples therapy. We hugged.

Just the day before I slept beside her in our uninsulated attic bedroom with a down comforter and hot water bottle. Clutching the heat of it, burying my face under the covers, hand clinging to the edge of the mattress, an anchor keeping me away from her.

Later I picked up a suitcase, while she was out. I found an Airbnb with no shower pressure and old radiators that squealed and couldn’t be adjusted.

I roasted, stripping off first my shirt, then pajama pants, then boxer briefs. Each sock with the toe of the other foot. Turned finally toward the center of the bed where the pillow was cool.

When I was a kid I thought my dad’s brake lights at the end of the driveway were a red light he flicked on just for me. To say goodbye for the day.

I rub my left ring finger with my thumb, where an indent still exists. Naked.

The last time I saw her she said she wouldn’t wear her ring anymore. I put mine in the cupholder as I watched the back of her car pull out onto the street, the brake lights waving goodbye.

I have trouble with endings. The parking lot still exists. Her puffy coat, the smell of that noxious anti-dandruff shampoo she used. After her I slept so hot and naked.

I saw her every day for seven years and then I saw her in the parking lot outside of couples therapy. I tried to look sad but I felt different.

I like to write life down, how it is. I didn’t see her again. But endings don’t exist, I don’t think.

So I don’t know what to leave you with.