Worthy Witness

Dear John,

Welcome home.  I left you last night.  I walked out of our  condo with the rooftop garden and steam sauna you hoped I would love; I miss the farm.  I don’t want anything from you: the Mercedes is yours; sell or keep the summer-house; screw the investments.  I left with nothing of yours but your robe.  Do you miss it?   I took whatever I wanted, and I wanted your robe.

I know that this seems strange to you, after all we’ve been through, building a business, raising a child, sharing dreams; great friends, wonderful trips.  I’m tired of it all.  I want to simplify, get rid of excess, live an austere life reading and writing.  I have some money, saved over the years and will buy a little cottage on the water, something I’ve always dreamed, and you’ve never wanted.  I’m looking at villages where I can walk and bicycle to everything.  I’ll send you my address.

I expect the nights to be hardest, so I’ve taken your robe.  It’s your fluffy grey one with the shawl collar.  No matter how much it’s been washed, your aftershave is embedded in its fibers, with the faint smell of pipe tobacco.   I will miss you.

Jane