5. Henry & Angie

Henry might have miscalculated.

Some way to put it, Angie thought, stuffing clothes into a suitcase with such single-minded determination that she barely registered what she was putting into it. Her mind was on making the suitcase full, not of things she needed, but simply full, as if its compensatorial overflow could spill into this new emptiness of which she was keenly aware. She packed the red Naugahyde suitcase with shirts and blouses and her toothbrush and a bottle of Aspirin, forgetting socks and toothpaste and the address book which she'd remember only as she attempted to contact the sister with whom she'd planned to stay.

Henry didn't understand this reaction at all. So he'd made a mistake! Didn't he suffer the consequences of that just as much as she did, if not worse? She should feel sorry for him, not angry -- after all, it had been hard work keeping the secret all these years, and he'd done that for her sake, trying to keep her happy. Where was the appreciation for that, he wondered? Right out the window. Henry had trouble articulating these thoughts. If only Angie had remembered -- and he had reminded her that very morning! -- to go to her appointment with the ophthalmologist right after work, he would have had time. Everything should have been normal by the time she got home, but no. It was so like her!

"Angie, please." He tried to sound soothing, but the words came out with exasperation. She passed him wordlessly and went down the hall, dropping some items from the partially-open suitcase. The salesman came down the stairs, stuffing his necktie into his pocket. Henry handed him his shoes.
"Is there," he turned his head at a sound, turned back. "Anything I can do?"
"It's better if you go."
The man nodded. He walked out the door and called back over his shoulder, "Sorry, Henry." He wasn't sure Henry had heard him.