I told him to stop eating in bed. Baguettes were the worst. Crumbs stuck beneath my breasts, latched onto my belly. I put up with it—without him, I was nothing.
The night he left, I followed a sourdough trail from the kitchen to the bedroom. Crumbs snaked across the bedspread, out the open window. A line drifted through rail yards, beside empty fields.
He’s gone, but I still wait.
Outside, birds have eaten his trail. Inside, I keep the remnants in a silver box. The box, on the window sill, shines in the moonlight.
I want him to see it.