Do-Over

“I demand a do-over!” I howled at her.

She just stared from the door, suitcase in hand, as though she couldn’t comprehend what I had said. For seconds that felt like years, the two of us stood there, mutely staring at one another.

Finally she sighed, looking exhausted.

“It doesn’t work that way.” She said, struggling to keep sadness out of her voice.

She shut the door behind her, and when the cab pulled away I still hadn’t moved from the same spot in the middle of the living room that once we called ours.

I hadn’t figured it would.