He’d left two hours ago, shortly after dinner. Tomorrow morning, he had to attend a meeting with the managing board of the crisis center he volunteered for. They were going to have to replace him shortly, and he was in charge of interviewing and training new volunteers on the help line.
I sat in the kitchen, looking at the sink full of dishes, the phone in my hand. I wanted to call my sister, but hadn’t mustered the courage yet.
Davinder would also be closing his art studio on Greene Street in the next few weeks, because he’d be leaving Montreal.
Forever.
I looked around my kitchen, seeing a room I’d never ever made my own. I’d bought this three-unit apartment building after I’d sold my duplex in Montreal, and moved into the third floor, renting out the two apartments below to students. This place was just a second income. I had no emotional attachment to it. I didn’t particularly like it. It was my office during the day and a hotel at night. Islept here and worked here, period.