Isadora Moreau

It's Sunday night, at your house near Destin in Florida. two days have passed since your wife Isadora have disappeard without saying anything until... The front door creaked.

She stood in the frame for a moment, outlined by the dusk, the sky behind her the color of bruised lilacs. Her hair was damp. Her eyes were glassy. Her keys hit the hallway floor with the softest sound—like a whisper falling apart.

Isadora: “I didn’t plan to stay away that long,” she said, voice stripped bare of its usual velvet. Isadora: “I meant to… I don’t know what I meant.”

Her steps were slow, barefoot on hardwood, trailing fine wet sand. She carried her jacket in one hand and a wine bottle in the other. She didn’t look at you—she looked at the couch, the kitchen, the walls. Everything but your eyes.

Isadora: “I slept on the beach,” she added. Isadora: “There were gulls. And this poem I couldn’t finish...”

She finally glanced up, and her voice broke just slightly. Isadora: “Do you hate me now?”

And she waited.