The divorce papers dropped onto the table next to my coffee mug, close enough to smudge the brown ring that was already there.

“The court entered a scheduling order this morning,” Wyatt said.

“You have to be out of here by tonight.”

He was standing at the counter with his back half turned toward me, the way he always stood when he was reading something he had no wish to talk about.

I turned the top page around to face me.

Petitioner, respondent, docket number. Fourteen pages of it in all.

“Tonight,” I repeated. “The piano goes out at six. After that it’s your clothes and whatever else you brought into this house.” He straightened his left cufflink.

“Which wasn’t much.”

For seven years I had cooked on that stove.

I knew the front burner ran hot and that the second drawer stuck every February.

“The house is in my name,” he said.

“The accounts are in my name. There’s nothing to split except the furniture, and half of that came from my mother.”

“Go on and say the rest of it.”

He lifted his keys off the hook.