by Amy Weitman

Created on: December 05, 2008

Malibu

She's given up searching for her husband's gun. Instead she's cleaning what remains: long black strands of hair in the bathroom sink, newspapers on the table and underwear on the floor. The awareness that her life here is not what she wants.

The rain stops. She lights a fire. It's the first one that she's made by herself. The smell of pinewood fills the otherwise stale air. She'll remember this scent. This will be a memory to keep. There must be a few, she thinks. She tries to make a mental list that will convince her to stay: food, shelter, the beach. She can't think of the anything else. What she knows is that she had hopes. She is certain of that. Expectations of a nursery to fill, a child to hold, and laughter echoing down the hallway. But she's alone now in a large and empty house.

She looks outside at the grey ocean below. Her fear of falling is gone. She's already landed. At least she hopes that she will.

She's packing and the phone is ringing. She knows its Dan. If she answers then he will say that his cell isn't getting reception up in Pebble Beach. The rates from the room are too high. Whatever, he'll have excuses for not calling yesterday. And yet it doesn't matter anymore.

The phone keeps ringing. If she answers, in the background of their conversation will be other people talking. Maybe it will be the sound of his television or friends laughing at an inside joke. It's better like this, she thinks. She'll make the goodbye quick and painless, like pulling a band aide off an old wound. She'll call him from the road and say, "it's over."

The phone is still ringing. If she tells him now he'll have to walk away from his golf game. Unpleasantness always constitutes the need for absolute privacy. Is that why she's alone all the time?

The phone's quiet. The dishwasher stops.

If she had answered then he would have said, "You'll never make it on your own." His words would have scared her.

She looks into the empty dresser. She was married one month after college graduation. Her father had been proud. My son in- law the lawyer he told the other pilots. It was a picture that had been framed for as long as she could remember. Education, work, marriage and children: all part of the plan. But whose, she wonders.

It seems like her whole life was laid out like a carefully plotted trip. But it was never an adventure.

Her open suitcase rests heavily on the bed. She's already changed the sheets. Dan doesn't deserve much, but she couldn't let him sleep in the

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