I watched a seagull peck at a french fry by the rusty storm drain.

“Drop me off at the end of the subdivision,” I said.

“I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

The sun was sinking behind the bare oaks when I came up my driveway.

My black trash bags were still sitting right where he’d left them on the concrete porch.

The plastic was warm under my hand.

I stood in front of the heavy oak door for three whole minutes.

The yellow porch light flickered on over my head.