I went to school, played with my sister, walked Flaco, and even had time to make new friends.
It was true that sometimes my gaze would rest on some door viewer or cheap cologne, and I would feel a slight disquiet. But just like a Buddhist monk—a friend of my mother’s, also new, had said as much—I let those thoughts go.
Twice a year I got a call from D.
“How are you, M?”
“Good.”
“How’s the new city?”
“Horrible.”
“I couldn’t call you; did you see the news about the telephone thief?”
“No.”
“He didn’t leave a single one. We were incommunicado for several months.”
(Silence.)
“I’ll try to come visit someday. Sales are down. People have so many screws loose that the floor is littered with them, so they don’t need to buy them at hardware stores.”
(Laughter.)
“Take care, M.”
“You too. Goodbye.”
We never said I miss you. And we didn’t talk about what had happened, either.
It was better that way.