End of Paper

I find myself fantasizing about Day 31—the glorious solitude, the empty bathroom counter, the silence. I also notice that I am eating better because she cooks. I am sleeping better because the apartment doesn’t feel empty. I hate that I appreciate her. I hate that I will miss the wet towels.

Do not be fooled. The magic does not last. By day 20, she has commandeered the television for a reality show about cake decorating. She hums the same three notes of a song she can’t remember. She leaves wet towels on the floor like a breadcrumb trail of mild aggression.