the hardest mile
Up loading the Honda. Of course I feel like a refugee—like the terror police have finally come knocking and I have to escape with carload and cat—but it feels right. With every box I carry to the car I feel a little lighter. The computer will be last. There will be time to decide everything, but right now I don't ever want to come back.
There's a unique and special shame that attaches to continuing to love someone whom you should not. In the end that's the hardest part to swallow, even more than jealousy or anger, and it's what would kill me if I stayed. I don't think she's reading this—at any rate, I'm writing under the assumption that she isn't. I've already told her how sorry I am. But if you talk to her, please tell her again.
