I knew he was standing just inside the glass doors behind me. I could feel him there. After twenty years, I could always feel him.
I got into the cab and didn’t turn around.
The ride home was a blur of color and motion.
Trees. So many trees. So many shades of green. I’d forgotten green came in that many kinds. Traffic lights, red and yellow and green. Storefronts with signs I couldn’t read fast enough. People walking dogs. A little boy on a bike.
The world felt too big. It felt too loud and too bright and too fast.
I pressed my forehead against the cool car window and cried the whole way home.
The driver didn’t say a word. He just turned the radio down.
When I stepped inside our house, everything looked foreign.
I knew this house. I’d lived here for sixteen years. I knew it was fourteen steps from the front door to the kitchen. I knew the third stair creaked. I knew the bathroom sink dripped when you didn’t turn it off all the way.
