“Keys?“
“Keys.”
“Phone? Wallet?”
“Phone, wallet.”
The routine was performed flawlessly,
choreographed over the past twenty years.
His words echoed hers throughout the hallowed halls,
bouncing off the empty frames hanging loosely on the walls.

You can have the paintings, but I’ll be damned if you get the frames.

As he stepped outside, the cold air slapped him
hard across the cheek.
He brought his hand to his face, trying to ease the pain.

It was unforgiving, spreading
outward until it consumed
his entire body.
Numbly
he walked away from his house, and
his life, without
looking back.