There wasn’t a final conversation of any significance. She always supposed there should have been– something she could point to and decode and understand. Even if this made sense to her, she was ultimately glad there wasn’t anything semi-cryptic or implicitly symbolic; any words she could pick over on sleepless nights, alone or with a different man next to her. She was glad their last day was like any other: he came home from work and was happy to see her; he greeted her with a smile and a hug; they made dinner together, occasionally laughing at different parts of their tiny arsenal of inside jokes built over six years. Pleasant conversation as they ate, recapping their respective work days. Couch and TV time after, chipping away at an old season of Survivor; progress forever frozen midway through the queue.

There wasn’t anything worth picking over, but she thought about their last day a lot– even if it were just like all the other days.

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