Five days ago, or twelve days ago, in the turquoise suit, he left. On the afternoon of June 8th, a man I knew left me for another. She is kind, he said. The kindest person I’ve ever met. Thirty-three days ago he told me, V, I can’t stay. And I said, Ok. And he said, I mean it, I have to go. Alone, he added. He paused before he continued on, he could sense I was surprised. My hands moved across my knees, my eyebrows waited. He began chewing on the ice. He had on the suit, the turquoise suit, and it was ugly. I wondered if the kindest person had purchased it for him. It was not meant to be worn everyday, and yet he had, I realized, he had worn it every day. Forty-seven days ago, he abandoned me. It was June, humid. I was in the kitchen when he told me. Usually, after hearing his car in the driveway, I’d run down the steps and into the kitchen, jumping up onto the counter. It was a thing I always did, and he had always known to find me there. But on this day he was not himself. He pretended not to see me, even though I was directly in front of the entrance, sitting on the counter, and he was smiling, which was unlike him. My thighs widened against the limestone. I waited, my eyebrows waited. He went to get ice from the freezer, opened the freezer door, closed it, and then paused, as if distracted. Ice broke between his teeth, I heard the crunch, and then he turned, he saw me. Then, then he told me. Ninety days ago my husband left me. For weeks, months, I stayed in the kitchen, sleeping and defecating in his favorite room. I froze any liquid I could find: vegetable broth, apple cider vinegar, low sodium soy sauce, extra virgin olive oil, sesame oil, Worcestershire sauce, hot sauce, vanilla extract. That is to say I made ice from them, put them in the ice tray, and froze them. I chewed on the dark brown, beige, golden cubes. I heard the ice breaking between my teeth.

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