It had been fucking abrupt.
She’d come home to the apartment they shared to find he’d moved himself out while she was at work. At work, working at the restaurant – his restaurant.
It was a shock. Strange to feel the ghosts of his things. For half of the life of their home to be gone, just like that.
It almost felt like the floor tilted in places – like a strange funhouse – where only her stuff remained, as if the weight of her things had warped the balance of the room.
She walked around, numb, dazed, picking up an odd hanger or empty CD case, watching dust bunnies scatter as she passed through the rooms.
The only remaining evidence of his presence were two flat unused cardboard boxes, $1.87 in change, and a few crumpled receipts.
Later that night, after the shock had worn off and reality had set in, she used the cardboard boxes as a makeshift bed. (The thought of sleeping in their bedroom was unbearable. Plus, she’d drunk the better part of a bottle of Red Label and the distance seemed insurmountable in the moment.)
It would be a month, after she’d moved out herself, after she found a new place, after a friend loaned her a blow-up bed, until she slept off the floor again.
(There’s nowhere left to fall if you are already on the floor.)