...from an old velvet chair

Sometimes the hardest part is keeping my foot on the gas pedal. Once or twice a week I make this commute, forty-three and two tenths miles north to another dead-end job that I'll end up quitting, though it's honestly just to tide me over. I usually feel sick by the time I hit the freeway, as if my heart is telling my body that we're getting closer, her and I, if only for a moment.

It's been an interesting road since Ellie and I became Ellie, and I. I've seen her once since then, though it was only from a distance. She looked happy, talking on her phone as she left the Italian market where we used to shop on Thursdays.

She was walking to her car, her little black Volvo. We used to take that car to the lake shore at night, watching the snow blow over the road as I held her in my arms. Even her countenance that day seemed not to have changed in the slightest, her head drawn downward as she made her way out the door. Each step she took was so calculated, but genuine. This was a contradiction she was so very good at. As her foot hit the last step on the landing she whisked her head back, glancing off into the distance at what I'm sure was nothing in particular. She had a way of making the most casual movements inescapable.

About 15 minutes into my drive is when I pass her exit. Usually I try to distract myself enough to miss the sign giving me the one-mile warning, but this never seems to work. Ellie lives in a development of town-homes within earshot of the freeway, just east of the new exit. If I honked my horn on a quiet night she'd probably hear it. Sometimes I actually do.

Our last day together unfolded like a beautiful one-act. We were at an upscale mall downtown, not far from the market where I saw her last. She wore the green stocking hat that I bought for her birthday, along with a long black coat and her tall brown boots. She looked like I always dreamt she would.

We walked through the mall without saying a word. It was when I noticed tears that I started counseling her once more, feeding her the usual encouragement. There was so much tension between us that even the doorman noticed, taking careful note to curb his customary welcome. While my words were repetitive, they came from deep within and held their meaning. But on that day, her tears didn't stop, and I put all of my banter on hold long enough to order steamed latts from a caf in the mall. In the faux alleyway around the corner sat a lone table for

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