Cake crumbs on the counter. A lit candle in the window. Empty coffee pot. Butter, left out to soften overnight. Two glasses stained from red wine.

Microwave clock said 12:30. Numbers glowed in blue. A fan turns overhead. She left hours ago. Some arguments about the current state of affairs; morals, politics, crime rising. Said she couldn’t take it anymore. So, she left. Got into the Ford. Turned the key. Left. He didn’t try to stop her.

The news told stories of teens killed on the Southside, a carjacking in Wicker Park, some stick-up at a Northside gas station. He watched with the sound down. Looked at pictures on the TV. Streets were slick with rain.

She called four hours later. Said she was in Iowa. Said it was safe there, but dark. Told him how she was guided by a star. One lonely light in the sky. He could hear her radio playing in the background. Ginger Baker playing drums. Eric Clapton on lead guitar. She spoke, but his ears were glued to the music.

Did you hear me? she asked. Did you hear what I said? he nodded his head. Did you? she yelled. He told her yes. Yes, he heard her.

It’s peaceful here, she said. There’s a cornfield to my right. And the smell of livestock lingers in the air, she told him. I think I’ll make my home here.

You do that, he said. Go on if that makes you happy. You should be at peace. So should I.

Why don’t you move here?

Where are you?

Iowa.

That’s a big state. Could you be more specific? he laughed.

Heading west. Just driving in the cool breezes. Just driving.

The sun began to break in the sky. She awoke to the sound of a car door slamming, smells of exhaust. Her radio was still on. Some news report about a man killed in his own home on Chestnut Boulevard.

She shook her head and drove on.