James hadn't even made it into her house, and he was already itchy.  On the walk from his car to her door, he noted the Christmas lights still on the shrubs.  It's August.  Pots of plants meant to be planted crowded the stoop.  Most of them gave up, dead stalks reproachfully dead, but some fought their confinement and threw off new growth.  There are two or three cardboard boxes, too.  Probably left over from the move.  He rings the bell and prepares for the worst.

She answers the door and his heart sinks as he sees how glad she is at his arrival.  How can she not know why he is here?  Because she doesn't read the mail, clearly.  On the table behind her is a tottering pile of mail, magazines, newspapers, papers upon papers upon papers.  It's probably the table from their old place, but he can't be sure.  Not much of it is visible; even the legs are obscured by more boxes and crates. Because looking at her is too hard, he takes in the sliver of room off to his left.  It, too, is crammed with shit.  Books, magazines, boxes, clothes, CDs, kitchen stuff.  She must have taken everything out of the storage space that he had insisted on, because they never had this much clutter before.  In the space of this brief glance he has noticed that there must be at least fifteen winter coats and warm hoodies piled up on the couch. In August.

And just like that, he understands why she did not sign for the registered letters, why she didn't answer the door when the process server came calling.  She wanted him here, wanted to get him inside with all her other stuff.  Wanted to hoard him.  He took one step backwards on the stoop.  She noted the movement and her smile faded.  "Aren't you coming in, baby?"

"Not this time.  Maybe I'll come by when you're done unpacking."  She started to say something, but he was already halfway to the car, trying not to run, but trying even harder to not look back.  He wanted his last, best memory of her to be an old one.  How she laughed.  How they used to hang out in bed, doing the puzzles together.  And because what he hoarded also took up space -- albeit only in his head and heart -- he knew he could forgive her for hers.