I woke up alone, as always. She had gone to work, or somewhere. She didn’t leave me a note. Instead she left me her empty house, seeming more entirely hers than ever – her teacup and breakfast dishes still on the counter by the sink, her shoes by the door, her grimy pastel drawings on the wall, no trace of me besides the clothes I walked in with and the open sketchbook on the kitchen table, with a half-dozen or so angel faces averting their eyes.