I barely remember the next few weeks. I called Donald a few times, always leaving messages that felt like scraps of paper in bottles heaved into indifferent waves. "If only," I said to the street as I stared out of the window, "if only I could give up caring."
I considered showing up again at his apartment. I still had his keys. Two things held me back. One was that he’d been clear that being alone there with me was so problematic that he would be on guard, not open to an honest discussion, so another attempt like that was more likely to make matters worse than otherwise. The other was that he might have changed the locks. I could almost certainly get into the building; there were other apartments, and the outside lock wasn’t under Donald’s control. But I pictured myself outside his door,
