I check measurements.
I catch mistakes.
I clean up other people’s chaos before it becomes expensive.
At Whitmore, I was useful in the same way a fire extinguisher is useful.
Everyone’s glad it exists.
Nobody looks at it unless something is burning.
I was fine with that.
After Laura died, being unnoticed became easier than being known.
Laura had been my girlfriend for three years. We weren’t dramatic. We didn’t post matching pajamas on Instagram or turn every dinner into content. We were regular.
We talked about renting a better apartment, getting a dog from a shelter in Lawrenceville, painting the living room blue because she said beige made people surrender.
Then a drunk driver crossed the center line on the Parkway at 1:47 a.m.
The police called me at 2:12.
