She opens wardrobes and draws. Opens and closes. Takes things out, considers, sorts, replaces. Slowly clothes go on the pile to pack for France, the practical ones, sensible dresses, she holds up some of the nice ones, inspects them, ones she thought he liked to see her wearing, that would make him look at her in a certain way. Should she pack one or two? There would be doctors in France, ones that might notice her, like she notices him. And if they noticed her, would she? Perhaps, perhaps not.
She considers soap and perfumes. This one, that one. She thought he liked one in particular. A few times when they were standing close, she thought, well, she must have been mistaken, but she really had thought that he…perhaps not.
She stares out the window and thinks back to when she told him she was leaving. How he just stood there, all uniform and white coat. Not a sign, nothing, blank, reticent. She couldn't say more and he wasn't going to meet her half way. She wouldn't miss him, no. Perhaps.
He sees the car leaving the village. He breathes, in and out, and finally feels a weight lifting off him. He won't miss having her around, won't miss the pretty dresses or the scent of her, because having her around when she is not his causes him more hurt than watching her leave.