the street.

Neither of us ever bought the milk.

Twelve years later, we were married and still choosing each other.

Our life had become almost wonderfully predictable.

Julian left for work at 7:30 every morning.

He worked as an accountant downtown.

Coffee in a travel mug.

One sugar.

A little milk.

Forehead kiss before leaving.

If work wasn’t too busy, he called me around lunch.

“Just wanted to hear your voice.”

Every Thursday after work, he went to the gym.

That routine had been going on for about a year.

And every evening when he came home, he walked straight past me toward whatever was cooking.

He lifted the lid off every pot.

Sniffed.

“What’s this?”

Then, finally, he kissed me hello.

I always teased him.

“You might be the most predictable person alive.”

Julian considered that a compliment.

“Predictable means dependable.”

That was why Thursday felt so strange.