It was getting impossible to live with Jack, because he was always there.
Which wasn’t true at all. Jack wasn’t always there. He had office hours every morning, so he left before eight. He had three classes in the afternoons, and he was casting for his fall production in the evenings. She probably only saw him three hours a day, at the most. But it still felt like he was always there.
She was haunted by the smell of his cologne, of his laundry detergent, of his coffee. While she cleaned his house, she founds dozens of pictures of him—some as an actor, some as the director—in various plays. She let his answering machine pick up each call because she knew nobody would phone his home number to look for her, and his voice suddenly filling the small house always sent a thrill down her spine.
