Blackbirds have come to eat their stale bread. Five or six of them swoop down and feast on old wheat, corn chips, and outdated pita. Feral cats come, and the birds fly away, leaving bits and pieces I tore up days ago. Old food on top of snow. Half eaten. They’ll be back.

She’s inside asleep. Sun has just come up. We were up late arguing. I think this time it was about the TV remote. But it wasn’t really about that. It was about control. Everything is about control.

I make my way inside and pour a cup of coffee. There’s a quarter pot left from last night. I wanted to throw it out and make a fresh batch this morning, but she said to let it be. Said coffee was expensive these days. And even if it wasn’t, it’d be wastful. She’s right. She reminds me she’s always right.

Watching her sleep, I make my way to the closet and rummage around in the dark, looking for a book bag. All I need is a small bag for underwear and toiletries. A copy of On The Road will be packed as well. A pair of jeans rolled up, and a couple of black tee-shirts. Always pack lite.

She rolls over on her other side, snoring and farting. I zip my bag and leave.