Chapter 4: Terms

On Tuesday evening my husband carried my boxes up four flights of stairs because the elevator on Marlborough Street was broken.

He hadn't been asked.

I had told the movers to come at six, and at five-fifty Harrison's car pulled up behind their truck.

He got out in a gray sweater, not a suit.

I had not seen him in a sweater since the first winter we were married.

"I'll take the heavy ones," he said.

"The movers are paid for that."

"Then I'll take the ones that aren't heavy."

The doorman watched us from behind his desk and pretended to read a newspaper.

Harrison took the box marked KITCHEN, the box marked BOOKS, and a lamp I hadn't packed properly.

He climbed four flights without once looking at his phone.

The apartment was bright and bare, with tall windows and a view of the brownstones across the street.

Somebody had cleaned it, and somebody had left a bowl of green apples on the counter.

I knew who.

"Thank you for the apples," I said.

"I didn't know what you'd want."

"I wanted green ones."

"I remembered," Harrison said.

He set the lamp on the floor and stood in my empty living room with his hands at his sides.

It was the first time in three years I had seen him look like a visitor.

The movers took the last of the furniture to the bedroom and left.

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