She got up. The floor was cold linoleum. She pulled on a coat over her pajamas—a man’s navy peacoat that was also Paul’s, because she hadn’t packed her own—and stepped outside.
She almost smiled. “Yeah,” she said. “Lucky stars.” Beach House-Thank Your Lucky Stars-2015--Album-...
She ran from a life that had fit her like a wet sweater: a shared apartment in the city, a job editing legal transcripts, a fiancé named Paul who pronounced “sorry” like he meant “finally.” The last fight had been about a chipped mug—his grandmother’s, he’d said, though she’d never seen it before. She’d walked out not with a bang, but with the soft, final click of a deadbolt. That was Tuesday. She got up
He shrugged. “Lucky stars.”