the distance between two rooms

I was loading the dishwasher

when I heard it—

a laugh I haven't heard

since April,

when she moved away,

when everything changed.

Not a small laugh.

The kind of laugh

that doesn't ask permission,

doesn't need an audience,

just happens

because something is funny

and the body knows

before the mind does.

I stood there

with a coffee mug in my hand,

half-empty,

still holding the warmth

of this morning's coffee,

and I listened

to her laugh

come through the wall.

She was back.

Not to stay.

Just visiting.

Just enough to remind me

that some people get to be happy

in other rooms,

that some people get to laugh

without checking

if anyone's listening,

and I'm here,

in this room,

holding a mug

that's already cooling,

listening to her be

something I can't reach.

The laugh stops.

Voices now.

I can't make out the words,

but I know the tone—

the way she talks when she's

truly happy,

not performing,

not checking the room

for approval.

I put the mug down.

Go back to the dishes.

The water is hot.

The soap is slippery.

And she's still laughing

on the other side of the wall,

in a room

I'm not in.