That morning, Agnes woke up in a bed that suddenly felt much too big. Only the warm morning sunlight took up the empty space next to her. When they bought the bed together so many years ago it had seemed just the right size.
She put on her dressing gown and made her way to the kitchen. She measured out the coffee and the water. It occurred to her that she was making too much, but she decided to let it go. She pressed the brew button.
At the stove, she cracked one egg into the frying pan. The white spread out from the yolk and made a small island in an ocean of black cast iron and she realized the pan was too big, too. She put one piece of bread in the slot on the toaster marked “one slice” and turned to flip her egg. She poured her coffee and a small glass of cranberry juice, leaving his orange juice in the refrigerator door. It would have to go rancid before she could bring herself to throw it away.
She rifled through her memories, which she kept like a box of old clothes in the attic. Some were crisply folded, rarely worn; others were wrinkled and stretched from frequent use. She tried a few on and settled on her honeymoon, when they had visited Paris. She played the trip out, moment by moment, and made up the parts she couldn’t quite remember.
When the quiet got too loud, she turned the radio on. Glenn Miller was playing his Moonlight Serenade despite the daylight shining through the window. She dipped a corner of her toast into the egg yolk. It had already gone cold. As she chewed, she dreamed of dances—pressed cheeks and syncopated heartbeats, in a time where everything seemed just the right size.