My soft and cushy indoor slippers were packed away. They were still like new.

I put on my old outdoor slippers to carry out the last few boxes.

My girlfriend had broken up with me seven months before. We had been living in her house at the time. After she told me she didn’t want to live with me anymore, she let me live in the studio behind her house.

Now she was gone, moved back to her hometown, leaving the house and the backyard studio to which I had been exiled in the hands of her real estate agent who was handling the sale of the property, as well as supervising the contractors fixing up the house for sale. The gardeners working on the property managed to toss some of my things out when they cleared out the backyard one day without warning. (So long hummingbird feeder!)

Going over the studio one last time to make sure I did not forget anything, I kicked off my outdoor slippers and put my shoes on. All that was left to do was carry two more boxes to the car and throw out one more bag of trash.

I had bought a pair of cheap slippers years ago, to wear when I need to run outside and didn’t have the time or patience to put on proper shoes. I had used those things to tromp through the yard, to traverse the graveled driveway, to run out in the rain, and to slog through the mud when I needed to dash outside for whatever imperative reason.

They were more like China flats than slippers, but they did the job. They were still technically wearable, but they had a few worn holes and were just filthy, too disheveled even for the free box out front where I put all of the unwanted books, appliances, clothing, and doohickeys for passer bys to pick up.

Actually my ex started the free box, as she had moved out before me. She didn’t bother to vet anything that she threw into the freebox or put onto the sidewalk with me, as I found more than a few things that I wanted to commandeer for whatever new place I would end up in: a wire shelf that was used in the kitchen, and a standing fan for example.

She had also tossed her Berkeley Half Marathon shirt in the freebox along with a variety of other items, the long-sleeved wicking running shirt that she got when we ran the Berkeley Running Festival a few years ago. Obviously it held no sentimental value for her. Running is a big part of my life, and all of my running shirts and medals are some of my most prized personal possessions. Running is not a big part of her life, so I guess I shouldn’t have been so surprised that she decided to chuck it, even though I would have hoped that she might have wanted to keep it as a memento of our time together.

I took the running shirt. I couldn’t just leave it there. Not that I could ever wear it since it’s far too small for me, but I had to take it in any case.

I carried every last thing out altogether: the last two boxes along with the bag of trash and the outdoor slippers. I stopped by the trash can and threw the slippers out, putting the trash bag on top of them.

After putting the boxes in the car I remembered that the next day was pickup day for the trash and recycling, so I went to put the cans out one last time. As I dragged the garbage can away from the garage, I saw that one of the slippers was on the ground behind the garbage can, as if it had jumped out, as if it was trying to save itself from being dragged to the garbage dump to decompose, as if it was trying to say “Please don’t throw me away. I’m still a good slipper!”

I picked up the slipper and stuck it back in the can, alongside its twin that had been wedged between two trash bags, which is probably why it had not jumped out with its partner.

After putting out the cans, I put the keys to the house and the studio on the kitchen table in the now empty house, leaving, for the very last time, the home where I thought I was going to spend most of the rest of my life, with a woman I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with.

I packed myself in the car and drove off, driving by the garbage and recycling cans waiting by the curb to be picked up.