I kept the suitcase on top of the wardrobe, behind empty boxes. Davor believed it held winter clothes. I never told him it contained three changes of clothing, a toothbrush, a little cash, and a list of places where I could spend the night. I was not afraid he would hit me or prevent me from leaving. I feared becoming, in every serious argument, the woman who stayed because she did not even know where her bag was.
I had been that woman in my previous marriage. Davor knew the marriage had been unhappy, but I gave him the tidy version in which I simply left one day. I skipped the months of turning back from the hallway. With him I wanted to seem decisive. After we argued, I would later climb onto a chair and check the suitcase. That small task calmed me more than the conversation I refused to continue.
Then the zipper on his travel bag broke. He was spending two nights at his brother's place. I said my suitcase was too small, although he had seen it a hundred times. He offered to take the winter clothes out. I said I had no key. After the third lie in a single minute, he looked at me so carefully that I could not continue. I brought the chair, lowered the suitcase, and unlocked it in front of him.
He did not ask whether there was another man. He asked when I had planned to leave. I said I had not chosen a day. He took out a folded shirt and recognized the one he had looked for two years earlier, wanting to pack it for me on a trip. He realized how long the bag had been waiting. I was surprised that the duration hurt him more than the contents. To him, our arguments ended. After each one, I quietly prepared a possible exit.
I did not promise to stay forever. He did not ask me to throw away the suitcase. He said he did not want to live with someone who let him believe they had resolved something while actually counting clean shirts. That night we discussed our last argument, the one I had declared unimportant as soon as he raised his voice. For the first time I told him what had hurt in his sentence, instead of ending the conversation and counting my belongings.
He traveled with a bag borrowed from his brother. My suitcase stayed downstairs for several days. Eventually I unpacked the clothes, but put the cash in my own drawer. Davor saw and said nothing. I did not offer him the empty suitcase as proof of love. When I returned it to the wardrobe, I left the key in its lock. Our next argument was no easier, but this time it did not end with my false agreement.