The Wallet on the Table

Lyrics

The sun ain't up.
Just that gray light before the dawn.
The coffee's cold in the pot.
And you are gone.

Left your wallet on the kitchen table.
Right in the middle, on a water ring from last night's glass.
Worn brown leather, cracked at the fold.
Same one I bought you for Christmas, back in two thousand and four.
The stitching's comin' loose on the right-hand side.
Just like everything else, I guess.
Nowhere left to hide.

My hand shakes a little when I pick it up.
Smells like your pocket, like leather and work, a faint smell of you.
I open it up slow.
There's our Katie, picture from the second grade, all teeth and crooked bangs.
Tucked behind a library card that expired last June.
A receipt from the Texaco on Highway 9.
Just gas and a coffee. A perfectly normal time.

This is the final accounting, isn't it?
The last withdrawal.
You took the cards that mattered, the ones with the high limits.
And left the small change, the history, and all the blame that comes with it.
This wallet on the table, it's a signed confession.
The quietest kind of bad faith, a final lesson.

The Visa's gone. The Amex, too.
Just the card for that video store that closed down in '09.
And twenty-seven dollars left inside.
A twenty, a five, and two worn-out singles.
Not enough for the mortgage.
Just enough to say... you didn't leave me with nothing.
Just enough to be cruel without saying a thing.

I remember you pulling it out at that diner in Santa Fe.
The one with the blinking chili lights.
You paid for dinner, you smiled at me across the vinyl booth.
Said 'we got this, babe, we'll be alright.'
You were a good liar, I'll give you that.
The best I ever knew.

This is the final accounting, isn't it?
The last withdrawal.
You took the cards that mattered, the ones with our names.
And left the small change, the history, the games.
This wallet on the table, it's a signed confession.
The quietest kind of bad faith, a final lesson.

I close it up.
Put it back on the water ring.
The house is so quiet I can hear a bird start to sing.
A busted, broken tune.
Just the wallet.
And the table.
And the empty afternoon.