He’s gone. After twelve years of marriage his fishing hat no longer disrespects my armoire. The house and I are trying to establish a new order. The floorboards still look for his heavy, morning footfalls, while the dip in the mattress defiantly begins to rise up. I have trouble sleeping. I go down okay. I starfish on the bottom sheet, fanning my legs back and forth back and forth across the cotton like I’m treading water. But at 3am, the novelty of space wears off and I’m floundering in the ocean with the sheets and quilts rippling around me.
On the seventh night I kick the covers off at 3.10am and pad softly down the passageway towards the bathroom. One eye is closed in protest, so that when I see it I’m not at all sure what it is I’m looking at. It looks like a giant Victory sign rising up from the floor. I wonder if my best friend is somehow playing a congratulations-let’s-celebrate-your-impending-divorce trick on me by planting a giant waving hand in my house in the middle of the night. Then my lazy eye opens and I realise I’m staring at a rabbit.