He shuffled out the door, muttering something like, “It’s only Wednesday… only Wednesday…” pulling his over-sized sweater over one shoulder, his cigarette hanging on to his bottom lip at an impossible angle.

I looked at him in a way that said, “Where are you going?” The door was almost closed, the ash from the cigarette scattered down the front of his sweater, his large Coke-bottle glasses hanging, crooked, his hands full, papers flying.

He paused for a moment as I stood stupidly in the hallway, and a strange expression passed in a shadow across his face. Later I would tell myself it was compassion or love or regret, but in the moment itself I couldn’t be sure. Perhaps it’s an invention of my tired, searching memory.

A piece of paper fluttered to the sidewalk. I remember that the sun was bright, impossibly bright, frustratingly bright.

“Eloise…”

It was one word with a thousand connotations. He said my name and it was both a question and an answer. I told myself then that I hated him but I knew that I didn’t.

I didn’t say anything, though later I tortured myself by thinking of all the countless things I could have said.

He looked at me a moment longer, his green eyes impossibly large behind their enormous lenses. Then he stooped to pick up his scattered belongings. “You know it’s time for me to go…” he muttered, more to himself than to me.

I watched him through the kitchen window as he made his way out to the shed in the back yard, but I didn’t wait for the flash of yellow light.

are the curators of our own person museums.