After she drove away, I walked through the house turning off lights. The storm had moved east. Oak Street glistened under the lamps, quiet and scrubbed. Upstairs in my bedroom, I stripped the sheets off the bed because suddenly all fabric in the house felt compromised. I did not sleep. I lay on top of a blanket and watched the ceiling until dawn, replaying my life like a crime scene I had once mistaken for a home.
There had always been signs.