He first noticed cracks in the illusion when his wife left him. And the first sign of that was the dog. Or more accurately, the absence of the dog. His food bowl and toys were gone, but most peculiar was the missing stash of plastic bags they used to pick up after the dog. She was detail oriented, that's why he married her, and now, as she struck back at him as close as she could aim to his heart, he could do nothing but admire her thoroughness. He had no use for the collection, anyway, so better that she took them. It was a mid-spring day when she took off, a Friday afternoon. Sun was still boring through the kitchen he was standing in, the white walls and white cabinets and white furniture amplifying the brightness.

Ambling through the house — formerly their house but now his house — he began to note the things he would now need to buy to fill his life up again. He would miss the fragrance of her lotions and powders, the way they mixed and warmed up their bedroom with femininity. Eventually that, too, could be replaced.