At my feet

“I’ll see you in a month,” Marty said, kissed her on the cheek, and reached for the door.

“Goodbye, Marty,” Helen said, as the door shut. The keys in her left hand slid out and fell at her feet.

Helen looked out the side light as Marty walked to his Escalade, two suitcases rolling behind him, packed them in with his other things, went over to the driver’s side, sat inside, pulled out, and drove away. For a split second, Helen thought he might’ve paused as he switched gears from reverse into drive – but no. He accelerated away, and Helen watched the Cadillac roar into the distance.

Marty hadn’t looked back once.

Helen sighed. “Well, there it is.” She turned around and went into the kitchen The cat bowls were empty, so Helen filled them. How many times had she asked Marty to keep them filled? He could never remember ... except in those first months when Ben and Jerry came to live with them, gamboling across the floor and jumping over Marty’s barrel torso.

And Helen went over to the dishwasher to empty it. Full it was – from their chicken cacciatore dinner the previous night. She’d prepared the meal for him, wanting to do something special before he left. He’d said, “pretty good, thanks for making it, Helen,” before heading off to bed, their last night lying side by side, the six inches between them as wide as the Pacific Ocean.

She went to make the bed and found an undershirt under his pillow – yellow-stained at the armpits. But of course, Marty had a hairy upper body – oh, how she loved lying in his arms, cuddling in those warm moments of the sex afterglow. Well, she’d put this in the wash along with all the other clothes he’d left behind.

Helen walked back to the kitchen with a load of laundry to go in the wash. She saw the keys on the floor by the door. She dropped the clothes on the floor and stared at the keys. Helen sighed. She was so tired of the ritual. Twelve years together, and this was the fourth time he walked out the door. Three times past he’d left, whether because they fought over the direction of their closet hangers, whether because he’d had an affair, or whether he’d gone to Italy on a work assignment – and now it had become four.

Her bones ached and her blood slowed down to a frozen trickle. She just couldn’t go on doing this any longer – every two years, another goodbye, followed six weeks later by another hello ... no, she didn’t care if Dr. Schindler had recommended a month apart, just so Marty could figure out his needs ... no, she didn’t care if Marty had promised he’d come back ... no, she didn’t care if he bought her a diamond ring for Christmas just two days ago ... all she wanted was to get rid of that hole in her heart that formed, every time he threatened to leave.

Helen picked up the phone book, found the number she was seeking, and dialed it. She reached down to the floor and grabbed the keys at her feet.

“Safeguard Locks?” she said when the woman answered the phone. “Helen Clifford at 135 Chestnut Street. I’d like you to come out to change my locks.”