He shrugged. He was not even angry. He just looked tired.
“Have it your own way, Patty.” (He had not called me “Patty” for months.
“Pat,” casually; “Patricia,” furiously.)
Then he said, “Well, don’t mourn me long, old de-ah.” He came and patted
my hair, and went out.
My last and silliest inspiration arrived. I thought, “If he doesn’t get
his trunks, he can’t go,” and I bolted the apartment door. He came back
with the cab driver, and knocked. I sat very still. He shouted, “If you
don’t open that door, I’ll break it in.” He would have done it. So I
opened the door. He threw his keys on a table. “I shan’t ever need
these,” he said.
I went back to sitting in the armchair. Trunks and bags and taxi-man and
husband departed, noisily. I thought, “This is the end. Why don’t I cry
or something?”