At the grocery store.
At the clinic.
At the shelter.
Not because I had become brave.
Because Amos had made loneliness less embarrassing.
Before him, I thought loneliness was something to hide.
Like a stain.
Like a personal failure.
But loneliness is everywhere.
It is behind tidy doors.
It is in quiet cars after work.
It is in people standing too long in the pet food aisle because they have nobody waiting at home.
It is in old animals sitting behind glass while families walk past toward something newer.
Amos did not cure my loneliness.
He sat beside it.
That was enough.
One rainy Thursday, my ex-husband came by to pick up a box of books he had left in the garage.
I had not seen him in almost two months.
He looked good.
Rested.
New jacket.
New haircut.
The kind of man who had convinced himself a fresh start meant nobody got hurt.
I let him in because the rain was heavy and I had no desire to argue on the porch.
Amos was asleep on the couch.
My ex noticed him immediately.
“That’s him?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He walked closer.
Amos opened one eye.
Just one.
It was not admiration.
It was evaluation.
My ex gave a small laugh.
“He looks ancient.”
“He is.”
“He okay?”
“For eighteen, yes.”
He stood there awkwardly.
Then he said, “I saw your post.”
Of course he had.
Everyone had seen that post.
He put his hands in his pockets.
“It felt a little pointed.”
I looked at him.
There it was.
The old habit.
His discomfort arriving at my door and expecting me to rearrange the furniture of my feelings.
“It was about Amos,” I said.
He nodded.
But he didn’t believe me.
Maybe it was about Amos.
Maybe it was about me.
Maybe it was about every person who has ever been traded in for the illusion of easier happiness.
He looked around the living room.
“You changed things.”
“I moved the chair.”
“I noticed.”
The chair was near the window now.
