He hasn’t left yet, but I already feel the chasm between us, disconnect growing with every cardboard box he puts into the backseat. I am cold. My toes flex in the damp grass, moist from the sprinkler we installed last May. Back then, we would defy neighborhood water restrictions and frolic underneath the spray of moonlight. We didn’t need to be drunk. We didn’t have our inhibitions. Back when we walked like we smiled a lot. Now, I wish I had put on shoes.
“It’s only a couple of months,” he says. “I’ll be back when…” He doesn’t finish.
“I know,” I say. But somehow, I don’t believe either of us.
When we hug, our chests meet for a few seconds, though it feels longer. Our hearts are against our skins, side-by-side like old friends who’ve forgotten how they know each other.