I am trying to picture your face when we were twelve and you sat across from me in English. Or at sixteen, when I glanced up from my chemistry test and caught you looking at me. Seventeen, in the backseat of your car, eyes illuminated by streetlight. In our twenties, freshly shaved and slightly windswept, saying, I do. Or at thirty-two, your lips gently caressing our baby boy’s cheek. I am trying to picture you from two years ago. But there is only this face—yesterday’s and today’s, the same face as tomorrow’s—this current iteration of you. I have seen this face every day for the past 429 days. Have heard your voice, a constant din from behind the office door. You are on the phone again. You are on the phone always. You are never going or returning. No longer a sight for sore eyes at the end of the day when the baby is screaming and the pasta is overcooked, bloated, and soggy, dinner ruined. There is never your face coming through the door, returning home. There is only home and home and home some more. Endless hours of you.

I am trying to picture your face when I tell you I’m leaving, or better yet when you emerge from the office at the end of the day to find me already gone. Our child sitting on the floor with a handful of markers, a pile of graham crackers. Dishes still in the sink, laundry unfolded, no plan for dinner. My voice a tinny echo asking you to “please leave a message.”

I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.

Claire Taylor is a writer in Baltimore, MD. Her micro-chapbook, A History of Rats, is forthcoming from Ghost City Press. You can find Claire online at clairemtaylor.com and Twitter @ClaireM_Taylor.