I found out later, through a colleague, that he'd taken extended leave to go traveling with Michelle.
Every day her feed was a highlight reel: ocean sunrises, amusement parks, five-star restaurants, limited-edition gifts.
Every caption in the same style: "Thank you, Les, for making all my wishes come true."
Each photo was a knife that would have cut straight into the old me.
But now, looking at them, all I felt was calm. Almost amused.
I threw myself into preparing for the selection—practically lived in the lab, buried in literature, crunching data, pulling results together, sleeping three or four hours a night.
When you're that deep in the work, love and all its noise really aren't worth mentioning.
At some point I went back to the burned-out apartment to salvage what I could.
The place was wrecked. Blackened walls, warped furniture.
My foot caught on something hard in the debris. I looked down. A plain-band ring, scorched dull and dark.
I'd saved up for a long time to have it made. Designed it myself, had it custom-ordered.
The night of the fire was our three-year anniversary.