At least when they cheat on you, you get to have an extra person to hate. It’s as if the bad feelings are given a face to gather towards, like fruit flies on the rim of a long-forgotten juice glass.

But when there’s nobody else – it can only be you. You’re the only one to blame.

My coworker Chris had driven me back to the apartment in his long-abused pickup, and now he stood by the doorway, black garbage bag held open as I picked my way through piles of clothes and papers. We’d already filled the few boxes I’d scrounged up, and we were on to classier options.

My tendency to overpack was getting in the way of my thought process – it’s hard enough thinking of what you might need for a weekend away, but my panic surrounding the circumstances was blocking the logical part that was telling me I’d have another chance to get the rest of my things.

“Sarah. It’s almost 2.”

“Do I want any of these movies? Or the stuff in the kitchen? I bought most of that shit.”

“Leave it.”

I listened.