Harry leaves me, but I don’t yet know. We didn’t sit down and discuss. I’m leaving you, he never said.

I don’t yet know how in the morning, Harry will tell me to leave the breakfast I am cooking, bacon aroma waking him up, and him telling me to come back to bed. How he will ask me if I really forgive him for last month. How I will tell him yes, because he said it meant nothing.

I don’t yet know how he will pull me close, look me deep in the face like I’m a rainstorm he has to drive through.

And I don’t yet know how I will get to work late and float lovedrunk through the day, how I will stop at the corner later on and pick up our favorite dinner, fresh ravioli and salad. How I will walk into the empty apartment, unpack the food, place the tomato on the cutting board. I don’t yet know how I will hold the tomato plump and whole under the dome of my hand, the aroma of bacon lingering in the air.

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