We are sitting in your dining room. The table is the same one you’ve had since college, a cheap wooden thing bought at an Ikea. The tea kettle is on, bubbling and boiling. While your Amazon Alexa is softly playing an old song, the title of which I can’t remember. It will bug me for weeks, until in the middle of the night, I’ll wake up with the title in my head.
“What are we?” I ask, softly, so soft I am not sure that you even hear it.
“I don’t know that we’re anything anymore,” you said.
And I grabbed my things, and left, as the tea kettle whistled. Like it was announcing the end of a relationship.
