"You been married for a fuckin' year, you get kinda used to it," I admit with a cough of laughter, but even if this is something I'm used to, I can't claim that it doesn't feel strange. It's been so long, and there are so many things that aren't the way their supposed to be.

Bending down to grab a mixing bowl, I wonder if I ought to be embarrassed that I've outfitted my kitchen with things like pots and pans and mixing bowls, flour and milk and eggs, like I'll be cooking for a family, instead of just me.

I don't know if I'll ever be able to explain to him how empty this apartment feels and how much I hate the quiet.