An invoice for one of my freelance clients. The leftovers of an expensive meal I’d wanted to reheat. A favorite pair of socks. My bright blue Sharpie. The scarf of my mother’s. Gone, or so I thought. In a different place altogether. The invoice, tucked underneath a stack of books. The leftovers, turning moldy in the cabinet instead of in the fridge. The socks, in the bottom of Dusty’s bin of toys. The Sharpie, inexplicably dropped into my hamper and put through the wash. My mom’s vintage silk scarf – tucked away in the drawer next to threadbare dish towels, one corner having been used to sop up a mess in the kitchen, permanently stained.

Things so small, so insignificant, I half thought I was going crazy. Maybe I was just forgetful, flighty, as Davis was always implying.

Except things had never been misplaced when I was on my own – only after I moved in with him.

Now, afternoon bleeding quickly into evening, rain tapping lightly on the roof of my new cottage, I moved from room to room, noting what was what and where, writing it down in my composition notebook.

Living room: trail map and History of the Catskills (on coffee table), encyclopedia set missing the letter H (in bookshelf), and on and on. Kitchen: tea tin (four packets of Earl Grey, two of mint), scratch pad (opened to a shopping list: bananas, black beans, coffee), utensil drawer (surprisingly, a complete set), knife drawer (six knives, red Lucite handles).

Perhaps these behaviors had always been there, brewing, but it wasn’t until Davis that they rose to the forefront – an attempt to control the uncontrollable. I’d started writing things down to preserve my sanity, to help me understand.

And when I had, it had slowly become clear, a Polaroid sharpening into focus. I wasn’t flighty. My brain was not a sieve.

These were punishments. Tiny ones, sure. Suited to my own tiny crimes. For not laughing at one of Davis’s jokes when we were at a party together. For asking him to do the dishes more. For writing that note to him – yes, in bright blue Sharpie – about the faucet that was always dripping.

The rain had stopped, and it was after seven by the time I got to the bedroom, which I’d saved for last. It was clear of any paraphernalia, nothing there besides furniture. I tossed the notebook onto the bed and dragged my bag into the closet. A small dresser hugged the wall inside. I filled the drawers with black tees and denim shirts, light sweaters and layers. The smaller underwear drawer sat on top. When I tried to pull it open, it stuck, creaking, but I tugged harder and it gave. A dusty furniture brochure sat within the drawer, had probably been in there since the piece was made – the fifties, the sixties – who knew.