We walk Dixie Dawg in the wee hours. Three yards away, morning traffic careens along Lenox Road. We amble along, with Dixie Dawg straining at her leash and pausing here and there to pee.
“Exactly seven years ago today, we moved in together,” I say.
Clyde shakes his head. “I wouldn’t have remembered that.”
The comment irritates me. I picture the move in my mind, drawing blanks. Who helped me move? Who carried the gray couch? How long did it take? Did I rent a truck? Did I borrow one? Did it take all day? Were we exhausted when it was over?
I press my lips together until they are white. I remember the date … but the day? The day escapes me.
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