Disappearing Act, Part XV

Sunday.

I don’t know what to do. I spent the day sitting at the window watching the street. I watched for any recognizable face. But there was no one but strangers.

I didn’t dare to leave the house. It was all I had left. With our furniture and our clothes.

I would like to say my clothes. Her closet is empty. I opened it this morning when I woke up and there wasn’t so much as a handkerchief. It was like a slight of the hand, a disappearance, like…

I simply laughed. I must be…

I called the furniture store. They’re open Sunday afternoons. They told me that there was no bed ordered in my name. I could come in to verify if I wanted.

I returned to the window.

I thought of calling my aunt in Detroit. But I was unable to remember the number. And it wasn’t in the directory any more. The entire directory was empty. There wasn’t anything left except my name in gold on the cover.

My name. Nothing but my name. What can I say? What can I do? Easy. There’s nothing to do.

I flipped through the photo album. Almost all of the pictures had changed. They didn’t show anyone.

Mary wasn’t there anymore, nor our parents, nor our friends.

What to laugh about.

In our marriage photo I was sitting, all alone, on an immense table covered with dishes. My left arm was extended and bent to embrace a phantom bride. And, on the other side of the table, there were glasses that were floating in the emptiness.

That were toasting me.