The way he will ten thousand more.
And I thought about Camille.
About the box.
About the scarf tag and the sealed envelopes and the shattered wine glass.
And I thought: she never had a chance.
Not because of me.
But because of this.
This small thing.
A hand reaching for a hand at a red light.
You can’t compete with that.
You can only be lucky enough to have it.
Or wise enough to build it.
We built it.
Brick by brick.
Nineteen years.
And a woman in heels broke her hand on the wall.
That’s the whole story.
The glass breaking was the beginning of her end.
And a hand at a red light is the reason it was always going to go that way.
She told me to prepare for divorce.
I framed a card instead.
And I’d do it again.
