She left for the boutique at 8:30 a.m. She took the subway, which meant she would be underground and offline for 40 minutes. Greg, being unemployed by choice, usually slept until noon at his own place, exhausted from the emotional labor of ruining my relationship. At 9:00 a.m. sharp, I pulled up to the apartment building, but I didn't bring a couple of buddies and a pickup truck. That's amateur hour. I brought a professional moving crew.
Three guys, a big truck, and a lot of shrink wrap. It cost me $800 for the minimum booking, but paying for speed and professionalism was worth every penny. I unlocked the door. The apartment smelled like stale wine and Greg, a faint scent of patchouli and unwashed clothes lingered in the living room. "All right," I told the foreman.
"We are surgical today. I am pointing out exactly what goes. If I don't point at it, it stays." We moved efficiently. We took the 65-in OLED TV I had bought for the Super Bowl.
We took the Sonos surround sound system. We took the Breville espresso machine, my pride and joy. We took the Dyson vacuum. We took the Herman Miller office chair. I went into the bedroom.
I packed all my clothes, my watches, and my shoes. I took the nightstands I had restored myself. I stripped the bed, but left the mattress. It was technically hers, even if I bought it. Then came the moment of truth.
I stood in the bathroom looking at the supply closet. There was a fresh bulk pack of toilet paper I had just bought from Costco. There were boxes of smart light bulbs. There was the expensive laundry detergent. A petty man would have taken them.
A petty man would have unscrewed the light bulbs just to make her sit in the dark. But I wasn't being petty. I was being indifferent. "Leave it," I muttered to myself. Taking the toilet paper says, "I am angry and I want to inconvenience you."
Leaving it says, "I am so far above this situation that I don't care about $50 worth of paper products. You are a charity case to me now." By 11:30 a.m., the apartment wasn't empty, but it was hollow. It looked like a staged model home that no one actually lived in. The soul of the place, the comfort, the tech, the stability, was in the back of the truck.
All that remained were her IKEA Lack tables, her decorative throw pillows, and the silence. I placed my key on the kitchen counter. Beside it, I left a note. I didn't pour my heart out. I didn't write a manifesto about betrayal.
I wrote a business memo. Elena, since you need so much privacy for you and Greg, I've decided to give you the apartment permanently. I have moved out. The rent is due on the 1st. Good luck.
Up. We're good to go, boss. The mover said, wiping sweat from his forehead. I took one last look around. I didn't feel sad.
I didn't feel nostalgia. I looked at the empty wall where the TV used to be, and I felt like a tumor had been removed. I walked out, locked the door from the inside, and pulled it shut. I got in my car and followed the truck. I didn't look back in the rearview mirror.
The fallout began at 1:30 p.m. I was sitting in a diner with my brother, eating a club sandwich, when my phone started vibrating so violently it nearly walked off the table. Elena calling. Elena calling. Elena calling. Then came the texts.