All Our Names by Dinaw Mengestu

or seriously injured, then I also thought that maybe for once fate was doing me a favor.
    I rarely called Isaac before coming over. I had my own key to the apartment in case he ever locked himself out, but I had never used it. When I arrived on Wednesday, it was a few minutes after 6 p.m. The streetlights had already come on. I didn’t expect Isaac to answer when I knocked—I knew he wasn’t home—but I did so anyway, out of a sense of decorum, because even if you had keys it was still rude just to walk into someone’s home. He didn’t answer, and I heard nothing when I pressed my ear to the door. I took the spare keys and pretended to struggle with the lock.
    I followed the same routine after I entered. I couldn’t shake the idea that maybe Isaac was watching me from a corner to test my loyalty to the pattern we’d created. I poured myself a glass of water and drank it while standing in the kitchen. I moved to the bedroom, and though Isaac was gone, I still undressed, crawled into the bed, and quickly pulled the sheets over me. I had spent hours in that bed but had never slept in it. Once or twice I’d slipped into a semi–dream state, but without ever forgetting where I was or that Isaac was lying next to me. When completely exhausted, I’d fought off sleep by thinking of things to worry about. I’d imagine myself pregnant. I’d think of what would happen if someone I knew drove by and saw my car parked outside. I’d think, What if there was a fire in the building right now and I had to run out with hardly any clothes on? If anything kept me awake, it was the silly delight I took in imagining all the different ways my life, as I knew it, might crumble.
    It was glorious lying in Isaac’s bed alone. The sheets smelled faintly like the baby oil he slathered on himself after each shower. I lay on my stomach, my arms outstretched, my finger caressing the carpet just a few inches beneath them. I wished it were alwayslike this. Isaac was so much easier to be with when only the ghost of him was around, and I remember thinking that if he were dead or never came back I’d probably learn to care for him more than if he were to walk through that door right then and never leave. I was tired. For two weeks I hadn’t slept more than five hours a night. I happily closed my eyes and slept.
    When I woke up, hours later, the apartment was completely dark—the shades in the bedroom were drawn, so not even the street lamps could be seen. It was after midnight, roughly the same time I always went home. I was more worried about staying too long than I was about Isaac’s absence. I knew his life was full of secrets, starting with the visa that had brought him here, and it was natural to assume that his sudden disappearance was another secret I’d probably never have access to. I didn’t have to think of anything grand to find that secrecy appealing. In a life of small-town wonders, a man with a passport that had been stamped several times was already extraordinary, and Isaac, by those measures, was remarkable. The more mystery I could attach to him, the more exceptional he became. When David later asked if I didn’t have my doubts about who Isaac claimed to be, I tried to explain to him that I’d always had my doubts, and that I tried my best to protect them. The last thing I wanted was to bring Isaac down to earth, to find out that he was just an ordinary exchange student who’d come to America. I wanted him far removed from life as I knew it, for as long and in as many ways as possible. This made it easier to tolerate, if not forgive, almost anything he did.
    When I left work the following day, I drove straight to Isaac’s apartment. I didn’t expect to find him at home, but I was anxious nonetheless. I knew I could do whatever I wanted in that apartment. I could rummage through the closets and drawers, and this time, if anything made me nervous, it was that I was certain I was going to do so.
    When I walked into the