I didn’t see him top to toe from all sides, but what I saw was what I’d hoped.

I’d hoped he’d find his way to happiness.

He’d said his order was to go.

Oh God, I needed to get out of there. It wouldn’t do for me to escape him inside only to have him see me outside in my car, freaked out so bad I was shaking.

I pushed the button to start my car, carefully looked in all mirrors and checked my blind spots, reversed out, and headed home.

I had no food at home but a bin of wilting baby spinach and some shredded carrots.

This was because I thought grocery shopping was akin to torture. I did it only when absolutely necessary, which was infrequently considering the number of options available for food that did not require a stocked pantry.

Conversely, I loved to cook.

I just didn’t do it frequently because I hated to shop for food.

I had good intentions. Practically daily I thought I’d change in a variety of ways.

Say, go to the grocery store. Be one of those women who concocted delicious meals (even if they were only for one), sipped wine in my fabulous kitchen while listening to Beethoven or something. There would be candles burning, of course. And I’d serve my meal on gorgeous china, treating myself like a princess (since there was no one else to do it).

After, I’d sip some fancy herbal tea tucked up in my cuddle chair (candles still burning) reading Dostoyevsky. Or, if I was in the mood, watching something classy on TV, like Downton Abbey.

Not what I normally did, got fast food or nuked a ready-made meal, my expensive candles gathering dust because they’d been unlit for months and not bothering even to dirty a plate. I’d do this while I sat eating in front of Sister Wives or True Tori or some such, immersing myself in someone else’s life because they were all a hell of a lot more interesting than mine.

Then I’d go to bed.

Alone.

To wake up the next morning.

Alone.

And spend the day thinking of all the ways I would change.