The saddest sound

He used to call me rabbit. “Because you jump,” he says, clapping his hands to illustrate the point. He laughs when I flinch, but then he pulls me to his chest and I dive into his scent. I am a rabbit; he is my nest.

There are so many sides of him to remember, but this is the one I love best. The smooth plane of pectoral muscles, the beat of his heart, the sound of his voice reverberating against my ear.

We met in Tel Aviv. He was standing in the office when I arrived, water dripping from my coat. A few days later, he kissed me in a hotel elevator. I followed him to France where I spent evenings listening to the sound of France 24 blaring from neighborhood television sets. I sipped rosé from the bottle, listening to laughter and clinking wine glasses, forks scraping against plates. “Ah, ouais?” twisted into murmurs of delight over the chocolate mousse. Whole evenings of “Mais, oui! Bien sûr.” I shut the door, draw the blinds.

In Istanbul, I curl up next to him in the stifling air of our hotel room. The traffic rumbles over the stones, the ceiling fan spins in uneven, labored movements, he stirs slightly. My veins are swollen with the adrenaline of a trapped creature, spinning like a dervish in a cage.

After two years, goodbye is just the plink of the house key in the mailbox and me walking to the train station alone.

The saddest sound I’ve ever known.