How to Fold Paper Cranes

Home alone, he goes straight for the kitchen. Straight like an accident, on purpose, like he didn’t know where he was going but he couldn’t wait until she’d left. She’s run to the bank, or the grocery store, or he-doesn’t-know-where because he wasn’t really listening when she called out to him on her way out. He pulls out the receipt, holds it in front of his face, makes himself look at it.

The first time he found it—tucked away, near the back of a drawer they rarely used—he’d been looking for the scissors, or some Post-Its, or a battery, or this receipt. Now he goes and gets it whenever home alone. He studies it. He looks at all the numbers—the price, the barcode, the date and time. They don’t mean anything, save for being the same numbers he always finds, but that first time, he’d looked at a calendar, done the math. He’d figured it out.

He pictures the different scenarios for what might have happened to the shirt from the receipt, why he’s never seen it. He pictures what it might have looked like, how she’d look in it. It could be hidden—from herself, so as to not be reminded; or from him, so as to not remind him; or from everyone, the whole world, so as to not have to share the memory, the specialness of it, every time she wore it. It could be in a special box somewhere, along with God-knows-what-else, he can’t bear to even imagine. She might have lost it, or thrown it away, or given it to Goodwill, or burned it in some kind of ritual of cleansing and moving on. She might have returned it. Except he’s holding the receipt, so she didn’t take it back. And he can’t picture her getting rid of it or cleansing or moving on.

A noise outside and he stands straight and rehearses—I was just looking for the scissors; or: Post-Its; or: a battery; or: this, holding it up—but it’s just a car driving by.

In high school, he once taught himself how to fold paper cranes, his girlfriend’s favorite. He spent a weekend making the cranes, one after another, using every piece of paper he could find, all weekend. Early Monday morning, he filled his girlfriend’s locker with them, barely able to wait for her to open the door, for the cranes to spill out everywhere. He hasn’t folded another paper crane since that weekend but, without thinking about it, he’s twirling the receipt in his fingers, folding it in half, folding triangles, little waves of folds. He pulls at the head and tail and the body pillows out like taking in a deep breath. He holds it in his pushed-together palms, then holds them out the open window and releases. He looks like a magician letting the dove go after having made it appear out of his hat or from behind a tissue, and the dove flaps its wings, glides out over the audience.