＃１１９

    He chooses Subway for lunch. Needs to lose some weight. Eat fresh. The bread’s not that bad—not compared to anything nearby. And a vegetable’s a vegetable. They’re busy today. He’s one foot indoors and already in the queue. Happy to wait. Not long, and.. a footlong, please. Rye, please. Pepperoni and mozzarella, please, toasted. A little of everything. The Sandwich Artist is very good, despite the rush. She cuts through the sub all the way—some don’t—and wraps the paper up tight. She rings it up. His card has barely touched the terminal before she's gone again, toaster-bound, serving another customer. She didn’t even give him time to say thank you.

    He catches the metro home. He used to cycle. Not anymore. Needs to lose some weight. He’s working too much and exercise was the first to go. Too much today as well. All hands overtime—client changed the scope. Lucille had a ballgame. Quarterfinals. Or was it semifinals. He would have liked to make it. Nothing he could do. His wife usually sends him photos of the game. Not this time. Battery dead, perhaps. He thinks about texting anyway. Asking her to warm something up. He’s staring at his phone and doesn’t realise it’s his stop until another passenger—he sees her often—taps his shoulder as she gets out herself. Startled, he grabs his briefcase and leaps off. Looks for her. No luck. She didn’t even give him time to say thank you.

    He gets home at nine. Keys the lock, heads inside. Something’s wrong. Things are gone. Not furniture. Photos. Books. A light is on in the bedroom, its door closed. He calls out and the door opens. His wife is there. But she turns away at once. Keeps packing a box—sweeping clothes into it, hangers and all. Where’s Lucille, he says. In the car. Where are you going. I don’t know. Her face is wet, but her hair is perfect. The hair he’d always loved. That he’d swept his fingers through all these years—but when was the last time? He can’t remember. She wrangles up the box and shoulders past him. Struggles with the door. Do you need help, he says. No reply. She elbows the handle and is all a sudden free, free!, a dove uncaged at last. She is beautiful. And she is gone. She didn’t even give him time to say thank you.