Minimalistic

I opened the closet door. Magee’s closet couldn’t have been this jam packed. Seven boxes stacked right at the door, I knew we’d packed away two other stacks directly behind them when we rented the apartment. It’d be murder going through those boxes and restocking the kitchen cabinets, the bookcases, the linen closet, the bathroom vanities, our dresser drawers. What could possibly be in these boxes, all twenty or so of them?

I had to think back two years right before I went to San Francisco. Yes, we’d packed the fine china, the silver, the photo albums, my CDs, videotapes, and my piano music. Yes, we’d packed away our tchaschkis, tablecloths, my egg timer, and – what’s this I see? – my rusty martini shaker. Let’s toss that away. That hasn’t crossed my mind once in the past two years.

He had an affair after I went to San Francisco. I found out about it when, just three months ago, we vacationed in the Hamptons and then, six weeks later, he wanted to break up. Six weeks after that, he wanted to get back together and “work through our problems.” With or without him, I’d planned to come home and my things. Now that I’d come back home, I didn’t want any of my things. I wasn’t sure I wanted him back, either. I just wanted it simple.