“…And I included a juice box and some chips.”

I can’t look at him.

My gaze goes to the fridge, but there are pictures there, pinned beneath magnets, fluttering in the soft breeze of the air conditioning: him, me, swathed in velvet and silk, all smiles, all love – our garb for the renaissance faires we both attend.

Attended.

Nothing is the same, now.

I glance away, but a pair of ornate frames in the hallway grab my stare: the cats, painted in the same outfits, an art commission from a friend. I can’t be reminded of what I’m losing and I close my eyes.

But even that blankness has scenes, tastes, scents, all the memories of our time together – so many that I’m overwhelmed and I blink to look back at him.

“I’m nervous,” I finally admit.

“I wrote an encouraging note on the banana,” he reassures me. His tone is pitched in that low way he does when he won’t say what he means.  “But you can’t read it until third period.”

There’s a pause, a slight downward tug to his stare, and then a chipper addendum, a joke, his stupid forever attempt to deflect: “The other kids will be nice.”

That’s not what I mean and he knows it, but it’s nice to playact in these final moments. I attempt to smile and it comes out all wrong. I try again. It’s still a grimace and he folds me into his embrace, holding me close.

I cling to him, smelling him, deep sniffs to mask the rising tears. His scent is cedar and him and bookmusk – his beard oil, our cabinets, his library. For now, at least. I try my best to memorize it all, filing it away for when I’ll need him with me, even though I will be alone.

“I don’t want to-“

He strokes my cheek, and I fall silent. What more is there to say? We’ve already debated running, fighting, dying and decided this was best, the best broken fucking hope of being together somehow, someday.

It doesn’t mean I have to like it, but it’s not fair to him to drag it out. I must scream; I can never scream. All I do is give him a smile and a slow, tender kiss. The morning glows golden and the light holds him close, tracing every tract of his body and for a brief moment I find myself jealous of the sun for being able to make such a map. I watch closely, following each final, minute movement we have left and I’m breathless – it’s too beautiful, here, now, for how ugly everything is about to become.

I close my eyes and remind myself of memories, of a life before yesterday.

The bus outside rumbles and the children in charge shriek: no more delays. It’s time to go, *woman*, and the sneering hate seems worse than anything, right now. It’s something small and petty, a focused target I can arrow in on to avoid thinking about what this all means.

The windows of the bus are blacked out, etched dark with spray paint.

I don’t want to think about what this all means. The irony of that urge grabs me and shakes me and I feel like I may puke and I force it all down with a bitter swallow. The beginning becomes the end.

The door rattles. My husband tenses. I must go.

I instinctively reach for my keys – Why? Habit, stupid, hopeful – and then open my hand. Our eyes meet and everything is-

-empty.

The bus roars and children scream and I say goodbye, looking forward to the small mercy of lunch, while inside there is a churning, blooming – festering – wondering of who turned me in?

I’ve had enough pain for one day. Let’s playact a bit longer.