Red.
The light flashed red again.
Margaret was with me.
August stayed upstairs with directors to manage Camden’s crisis.
“Don’t try again,” Margaret said.
“Why?”
“Because now we document everything.”
Margaret and I approached truth differently.
I believed truth alone sufficed.
She knew it needed documented times.
I returned home just before midnight, carrying the unfamiliar sense that my personal life and professional life had both changed.
Camden stayed away.
I’d expected nothing else.
The apartment felt unfamiliar in his absence, although every object was still exactly where we had left it.
Not vacant.
Simply truthful.
Walking through the living room, I noticed years of self-erasure.
His trophies filled the shelves.
His photos lined the hallway.
His favorite whiskey occupied the cart.
Our art came from his favored galleries.
Even the thermostat followed his preference.
I searched our home for something distinctly mine.
I found a ceramic bowl mother had made.
