I left her at the foot of his bed.

The little beeps and the machines and the tubes all doing what they could. I walked through the doors and out of the hospital. I walked to the cab and into the airport. I walked on the plane and away from our life. It made me a scoundrel. Truly. But I did it anyway. Hospitals are jealous lovers. They take all the oxygen out of all the rooms.

There was a Porsche that lived in her father’s garage, underneath a tarp. It was red. I could tell that it was red because one section of the tarp just above the left rear wheel hadn’t been pulled all the way down. We walked by it every time we went over there for dinner. The air in the garage was heavy and close. It smelled like wood dust and oil.

One evening as we shuffled sort of sideways between the car and the garage wall I asked her, “Does he ever drive it?” and she said, “No.” I asked her, “Did he ever drive it?” and she said, “Yes.”

I didn’t ask her about it again.

Everyone is light and able to float in the beginning. It is the accumulated weight of each love which pulls our bodies down. Sometimes, early on, we let one go and we are suddenly buoyant. The change in pressure effects our heads.