"It was a beautiful shade of blue, but then again not exactly blue, it was more like lilac. But then again, not exactly lilac either, since it had a tinge of grey in it. To be more precise, it was the colour of heartache. But fortunately (they) had never been much troubled by heartache and so they did not recognize it."

-Susanna Clarke, from Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell

He doesn't sleep much anymore. He finds it gives him plenty of time to think about her; it's hard not to. The process of disentangling his life from their life is a monumental task, made only more difficult by his isolation in California. He has picked up the annoying habit of having conversations with her, entirely one-sided, of course, in his head. Sometimes out loud. What should I eat for dinner? Should I buy a bicycle? What could I have said to convince you to say yes? She never responds.

He can't help mentally replaying their entire relationship over and over again searching for clues. For every milestone, she was always way ahead of him. She kissed him first. She wanted commitment first. She said I love you first. Was it such a leap to assume she was thinking about marriage long before he was?

It's the little things that sneak up on him. The memory of how her hand fit in his, the whisper of her breath on his ear. The sound of her laugh. A flash of blue that exactly matches the shade of her eyes in the morning. The temptation to call her beckons most minutes of the day. He's stayed strong so far, barely, but it's only (only!) been ten days. He feels like he's aged ten years.

The first one arrives innocently secreted in among the jumble of mail addressed to Current Resident and miscellaneous shopping circulars. He mistakes it for junk mail until he flips it over to reveal her familiar handwriting. He stares at it, caught off-guard, and slowly registers his new address. He flips it over . MEMPHIS, it announces. HOME OF THE BLUES. BIRTHPLACE OF ROCK AND ROLL. The I in Memphis is a red guitar.

He flips it over again. The sight of her familiar scrawl both soothes him and stings his eyes. He remembers a million other little notes: Buy more milk. Gone to the library. Finn stopped by. Listen to this band. I love you. He swallows painfully, then scans the postcard. Words and phrases leap out at him. Job...Obama's campaign trail...Beale Street...Elvis... and a few sentences at the end. I miss you so much. I'm still in love with you. Please let me know how you are. And in large letters at the bottom: Hello, Mr. Postman!

It takes him two hours to figure out how she got his address. He's mapped out scenarios in his head of Rory scouring the internet, or sweet talking the secretaries at work, each one more ridiculous than the last (the last one being Rory hiring a midget gumshoe named Jack to follow him home from work) before common sense takes over. Honor, of couse.

This suspicion is confirmed by a phonecall, during which his much loved, pain-in-the-ass sister confesses to giving up the information. I couldn't stand seeing you like that. She loves you, you idiot. You took her by surprise, that's all.

Surprise? he exploded. We were together for two years! We were living together, damn it!

And in those two years, did the topic of marriage ever come up? I mean definites, not somedays? Her tone had been patronizing, thought it was softened by genuine concern.

He considered. They talked about jobs and location, of course. They'd agreed to factor each other in. But in what capacity?

That's what I thought, Honor had sighed when he failed to respond. Work things out with Rory, Logan. Give her time.

She didn't want to marry me, he'd said. She said she didn't want to sacrifice her future. I wasn't enough.

Two weeks pass in a flurry of work. He is so busy that she only haunts him at night when he is still and alone in his too-big-for-one house. I'm a girlfriend girl, Logan. I have boyfriends, not escorts. That one is hilarious, really. Logan, Rory wants a career. She has no idea what it takes to be in this family. Touche, Mom.

He's not sad and hurt anymore. Now he's bitter and angry.

The postcards continue to arrive irregularly, depending on where she is on the campaign trail. The next one arrives exactly sixteen days after the first, this time from Pittsburgh. It looks abused and battered, sneaker treads brazenly imprinting the surface. She has managed to fit an impressive potpourri of information in that small square of space; she spouts nuggets of interesting tidbits about Pittsburgh and short but colorful phrases to describe her fellow reporters: huggable grizzly bear, Pippi Longstocking on crack.

She doesn't mention the fact that he hasn't called. He reads them with an air of nonchalance, but can't bring himself to throw them away. He displays them on the refrigerator, Memphis lower and to the left of Pittsburgh, as if his stainless steel appliance is the road under her feet.

New Orleans, dated July 6, 2007. Bourbon Street...Zydeco and Chinese food, remember?...How could he forget? Cutting out of the club early, the memory of their parting at the Chinese restaurant leaving him woefully unsatisfied, skulking outside her door room, trying to determine if she was alone. Their first time. If he had known this was the final destination, maybe he would have thought a little bit harder about climbing out that window after all. But probably not.

Number Four makes no mention of location, though the gaudy font announcing GRAND RAPIDS, MICHIGAN is clue enough. Also, there's the fact that he has begun following Obama's travels around the country via internet and TV. This one is solely about the people she left behind in Connecticut. Grandma and Grandpa finally purchased property in Cape Cod...Mom and Luke are taking it slow, but I think they're going to be okay. Are we going to be okay?

He marvels at her dogged denial of the situation. He can't help thinking How is this different from us being engaged? Aside from the absence of wedding planning and the one-sided correspondance, they are still very much committed to each other - he grudgingly, she willingly and without encouragement. Is it possible that the problem had been not in the idea of the proposal (spending her life with him), but the implications of the proposal (time to start planning the wedding)? It's not like he had a date reserved at the club for the nuptials.

How had his proposal translated to him OR career? He didn't remember issuing an ultimatum. Only his actions, he realizes with a sinking feeling, did all the talking for him. I was the one who walked away.