On the sixth day, Malachai says, "My lawyer will be here tomorrow to begin the dissolution process."
It's 6 AM. I woke up early again to make breakfast. Malachai joined me a few minutes after I started, fully dressed—thank God—in a grey t-shirt and matching loose pants. He sits on a barstool by the counter, nursing a cup of black coffee. His glasses are slightly askew.
After my breakdown and our brief conversation last night, we've reached an unspoken truce to live out the final days of this arrangement in a state of peace. He didn't protest when he found me at the stove. I didn't ask whose blood was on his clothes last night.
"He recommends we draw up a Mutual Termination Agreement," he continues neutrally. "I won't bore you with the details."
I turn a sausage in the pan. It sizzles. "Alright."
He seems struck by the simplicity of my response. He traces the rim of his mug. "Alright."
