It was here it ended. In a humble city park with a prefab playground and paint chipped picnic tables--a slice of Bermuda grass supposing to make a bunch of houses a community. My wife found the first clue a year prior and had by then in-person seen me here with Liz three times. Liz and I met at work; she was initially drawn, she says, by the curious pairing of my young, kind face with my old man's ways, me being 44. Her telling me so was enough for me. Light flirting, then a few lunch dates, then a walk in the park followed by other walks in the park. After a while I held her hand. We walked, slowing and stopping here and there as if oaks and a few pines strewn amid scrub trees and dry weeds were something to look at. We also ran errands together. Sometimes we just drove. We went to hotels. We even arranged to meet in the evening five times. Five, despite my being a dedicated homebody, despite my sensing how the absence of your mate makes rubber of your skin and demolishes a home save for its shadows and corners. This sense drove my wife who drove her Prius to my job and then to the park, pulling up to the curb behind the scrub trees lining the man-made runoff creek where water moved ambivalently to its grave. It was here it ended, with my wife waving to Liz and me from the swing set.
