I wish I could promise that if you walked away I would close my door to you forever, that I wouldn’t linger in the moment between your turning away and my locking up—it’s like that millisecond during takeoff when your seat has yet to catch you and you know how it feels to be weightless. I admit that even without reason to hope, I would continue to leave the key under the mat and the front-porch light on, to listen for the sound of your car pulling into the driveway, though I would never admit this.
