Lydia Copeland HE SQUEEZED HER HANDS He came back with a silk scarf and some plastic sunglasses he said reminded him of her. He said he saw her everywhere while he was gone. She asked about the woman, and he said they had argued much of the time and that he didn't want to talk about the woman with her. He said he saw her at the bus stop fanning herself with a piece of mail. And at the mall holding hands with a family. That wasn't me, she said. It was winter, and her kitchen ceiling had caved in while he was gone. She was in a bath towel when it happened, and no one had seen her staring up into a hole, watching the water pour over her cups and saucers and bags of bread. He squeezed her hands and then left to collect some things from his apartment. She would want to be gone when he came back. But she would stay there. And stay there until the summer, and he would take pictures of her stirring cake batter with her hair pulled back, or sitting on the front stoop with the strawberry plants and miniature roses. She knew one day she'd lock up and turn out the lights, sit in the dark at the kitchen table and listen to his knocking on the door. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Click here for Lydia Copeland's bio