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He's doing laundry.

I sit on the edge of the bathtub and watch him as he folds a clean shirt into a messy square. His hands brush over the fabric in a quiet, familiar dance. A small frown of concentration mars his brow and I begin to smile. Laundry has never really had a great admirer in Pacey; I remember how I found him one afternoon explaining the perils of color mixing to the dragons printed on a pair of his shorts.

He adds the shirt to the pile on the washing machine and tosses some boxers after it. They're not the ones with dragons.

I drop my gaze for a moment and trace the green tiles with a toe. The bathroom is bare, stripped of all the soapy accoutrements; the half-empty bottles of shampoo, the razors, gnarled toothbrushes. Even the stupid Joke-of-the-Day calendar has been taken down from the wall next to the toilet. It was all packed this morning into the box that he marked "Towels". He wrote it quick and the "w" looks like a "v". I like to think that the box misses the Fatherland.

The joke calendar was thrown in the trash. I like that too.

He hums a bar of something and I look up. His back is to me as he pulls socks out of the dryer and the humming stops as the socks continue to appear. Three… four… five. Digging out the sixth, he mutters a little eloquence about Mary friggin' Poppins and her carpet bag. I catch a smile again on my lips. I suppose it might be impolite not to refer to her by her full name- first, middle, and last.

A sudden, savage emptiness tears through me then and I watch him greedily, trying to gorge myself so maybe I'll be sick of the sight of him.

He pulls his t-shirt over his head. That doesn't help me so much.

He changes into a clean shirt and gathers up the laundry. Lightly, I drum my fingers on the smooth side of the tub. Everything is gone from this bathroom but him, and those clothes, which are the last things that have to be packed.

A sock wriggles free of the pile and he curses softly and I laugh as he bends to retrieve it. Then he is gone, into the living room, and I stop my fingers. I sit on the edge of the tub.

The bathroom is empty now.

I don't know how long it's been. Too long, not long enough. Awhile. It's been awhile. I can remember when we first moved into this place, twenty-four and naïve. I can remember the bedroom door that wouldn't shut and the kitchen chairs that we carved our names on. I remember the champagne I brought home for Pacey's first promotion and that for some reason the newspaper was never delivered on Thursdays and I remember the day I found out I was sick.

But I can't remember the pain.

I broke my arm when I was seven and I can't remember how that felt either. What I do recall is that I didn't like it one single little bit.

Pushing off the tub, I cross to the mirror. I pull stupid faces; scrunch my nose, stick out my tongue, tug my mouth into a grimace and widen my eyes to saucers. I do it to entertain and frustrate myself in equal parts.

The mirror stares back politely. It doesn't recognize me anymore. I scowl at it. Never was real fond of it before, anyways.

Twenty-six and "beloved".

I leave the bathroom and wander over the old floorboards, into the living room.

He's crouched, the shirt stretched taut across his back as he tapes the last box shut. I think the appeal of the blue marker has worn off as shorthand has been implemented; this one is labelled "stuf". Swedish ancestry, maybe.

I sit on the floor and lean back against the wall. There's no furniture, no sofa, just the boxes; not that it makes any difference to my butt. He can't hear me or see me but on the plus side, I no longer need cushions.

I wish I could break something right now.

There were days, in the beginning, where I would sit on the floor like this, when I had been crippled by the hope that he might see me. And there were some nights, some black, black nights that I could almost swear he did see me, slipping so close on a tide of alcohol. He had even reached for me once, said he hated me for dying. I had sat in the shadows, listening to his broken breath. I had hated me too.

The boxes are done and he stands and stretches. I trace the length of his body with my gaze. I don't miss the taste of ice cream, or the feel of the salty ocean air on my face. I don't even miss being able to paint or write. I just crave his touch; his bare feet brushing mine as we ate dinner at the kitchen counter, how his hands tangled in my hair when he kissed me, and the way he would smooth his thumb gently over my brow when I was worried.

I want him to smile at me, in that slow, everything way. Just once more.

He carries the boxes out to the U-Haul truck parked in front of the house. I sit on the living room floor and watch and feel bad about not offering to help.

He talks a little to himself as he picks up the German towel box, going over some checklist. Lights, mail. The shoes in the wardrobe. I follow him with my gaze as he edges awkwardly out the front door and down the porch steps. As I wait for him to come back inside I imagine I am the one moving and he is my slave boy at my beck and call. I'll imagine anything to distract myself from the fact that he's going, got a job in New York.

And I can't leave this house.

I used to be a junior editor. I made semi-great tuna casserole, I loved sleeping till noon on Sundays, and I could say "Would you like to see my yacht" in Spanish. Now I'm the dust that settles on the floor, the fragrant air of the honeysuckle plant outside the kitchen window. I'm a 1950's housewife who waits at home all day for the sound of his key in the door. But a really crappy housewife, one who doesn't do the dishes, or clean, or fluff the pillows on the bed, just waits, playing with frustration and loneliness for toys.

¿Usted desea ver mi yate? I still have that.

He takes the steps back up to the porch slowly.

I've always loved his easy, sure stride, but now I hate it as he walks over to the last box; the living room is too narrow, he reaches it too soon. I get to my feet because I can't bear to be sitting anymore. He's looking at the box. For a moment he is still, his gaze not really focused. I turn my head away, not wanting to see the shadow that slips across his face.

The box is small. I watched him tape it up yesterday, his fingers smoothing the wide brown strips, one after another. I want to crawl in there now, to curl up and have him take me to New York, to take me with him, but it's taped up too tight. I watch him carry it to the door and I'm jealous of that red dress, of that dried prom corsage and the letters we wrote in class, because they are going with him.

I leave the living room. The green tiles don't feel me as I step back into the bathroom, the washing machine doesn't notice when I hoist myself up to sit on it. Pacey is out at the truck and there is an ache in my stomach. I know this ache.

He brought a date back, one night a few weeks ago. I watched him kiss her in the living room until the feeling became a cold black stone inside me. Then I came in here and sat, hunched over, holding my jealousy like it was something so fragile and precious. Even now, as the dull burn makes me long for tears I don't have, I am grateful for it. With it, I feel almost real.

I swing my legs a little, bumping my heels against the machine.

He had sent the woman home a few minutes later. I remember sitting here, and how through the open door I had heard the creak of the armchair, and through the open door, I had listened to him cry.

If envy is green, then sorrow is some ugly, wretched shade of black.

He comes back into the house now. I stop swinging my legs. He's talking on his cell phone in the next room and his steps are slow and uneven. It's not an important conversation; his tone is light, his words small nothings. It could be Doug or some friend from work. I close my eyes and lift a hand to my ear. I pretend it's me.

Pace? I speak quietly. Sorry I haven't called you sooner.

"No, no, that'll be fine."

I'm glad you threw the calendar out.

"He saw them."

I smile a little. You kept the kitchen chair, though Something hurts my throat and I'm frowning and laughing at the same time. You're stupid like that, you know that, right?

"Fifth floor, I think."

I hear him chuckle faintly and I bite down on my lip, hesitating.

I meant to say this before- I didn't want to, I don't, it's stupid too- but I meant to say it anyway-"

Everything just fades away and there's nothing in the bathroom but me. My voice scrapes a whisper.

Bye Pace.

"Okay."

I open my eyes.

I hear his voice from the next room.

"Yeah, see you tomorrow."

I lower my hand to my lap.

See me.

He's not in the room, but I plead with him anyways.

See me. Please.

I glance over at the bathtub where he found me that day, awhile ago. He had made me bubbles to cheer me up; I think they were supposed to be rose-scented but I couldn't smell anything much. I was tired, so tired and sick. I had fallen asleep there in the tub and when I woke up, I wasn't anywhere at all.

I hear the rustle of his coat as he puts it on, out in the living room. I don't know what to do now. I don't know why I'm still here. The house is packed in the truck waiting out front, and I sit on top of the washing machine.

Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I look down at the flat white front of it. He's not taking it with him. At least we've got that much in common. Maybe I'm the guardian of this modern marvel, watching over the spin cycle forevermore. Maybe on the delicate rinse I won't notice when he is gone. Or during the wool wash I won't think about New York.

He walks into the bathroom then, for no reason at all.

I look up quickly. I watch as he crosses the tiled floor, and my lips part in soft surprise as he places his hands along the edges of the machine, on either side of me. I want to shift my legs so that his fingers might brush against them, but I don't.

He leans against the washing machine and lowers his eyes. And I look at him, so close.

I know this face. I know the dark lashes and the faint scar on this chin. I've kissed those lips and I know their secret smiles. I've traced the straight line of that nose with my fingertips, and loved the faint crinkles that flash with laughter at the corner of those eyes.

I raise my hand and trail a finger lightly over his brow as he used to do to me.

He draws a shaky breath, almost like he felt my touch.

I press a kiss on his forehead and he looks up. For a split second I see my reflection in those blue depths, then he exhales and pushes away.

I close my eyes as he leaves the bathroom.

We bought the washing machine a week after we moved into this house. There wasn't really a place for it, but we were so excited about never again having to find quarters for the laundromat. So we put it in the bathroom, and that first evening we had sat in the tub, kinda staring at it, sizing it up, and argued about whether it meant we were now doomed to a grown-up life.

I remember how my hair was soapy wet, and how Pacey's laugh echoed off the tiles.

I hear the front door click shut and I freeze.

There's suddenly so much more I want to say. I want to tell him that he shouldn't work so hard, that I know he only pretended to read Moby Dick, and how I hate those dragon boxer shorts.

I want to dance with him, in the empty living room.

Out in the street the truck's engine sputters then starts up. The sound wrenches at the air and my eyes fly open in pain. I slide to the floor and run, bursting through the front door and out onto the porch and I am screaming, screaming as the truck pulls away.

The word tears like fire in my throat. Something is breaking, ripping and bleeding inside me and I scream his name.

The night doesn't even blink.

I look down at that deserted street until the stars burn out and the sun begins to wake. Then I go inside, crossing quietly over the bare floor, and step into the bathroom.

The mirror ignores me as I sit on the edge of the tub.

So many times I had watched him as he folded laundry by the washing machine. He never saw me, never knew I was sitting here.

I just liked the way his hands moved.