Across town, I imagined Derek and Cynthia in whatever space they were currently occupying. I had heard from Dorothy that they were staying with Cynthia’s sister since I changed the locks, which had apparently not been received well by Cynthia’s sister. And I imagined them deciding what to do next. They would observe. They would wait.
They would try to find a weakness. They would not find one, but they would try. And meanwhile, I had soup to make and friends to call and a life to continue living, which was, when I thought about it, the most powerful thing I possessed. The broth came to a simmer. I turned down the heat and let it go slowly, the way good things require.
They came on a Saturday afternoon in late March, when the light had just begun to carry the first suggestion of spring. That thin tentative warmth that makes Columbus feel briefly possible after a long winter. I saw the car from the kitchen window. Cynthia’s silver Honda pulling into the driveway with the deliberate slowness of people who have rehearsed the approach. I set down my coffee cup.