He knew he owed her something;
the what was hazy.
They had picked out a dresser together,
bleached pine to match the headboard
he inherited from his mother after his father died,
after she had no use for a queen-size bed,
no use for much other than a convertible sofa
and a universal remote control.
She had tried to take it with her, but couldn't find
the included metal wrench he had assembled it with;
she left it behind in the middle of the bedroom,
half-disassembled and crooked without the drawers
and the weight of their contents to keep it straight.
She took his toothbrush instead, and left him a note:
"You have nothing of value, so I took
something you would miss."
He tied the wrench into a knot over the gas range
and sealed it in an envelope to mail it to her office, all the while
cursing her for not taking the fucking cat instead.