I smoothly hooked my bag with my arm and turned to the cabinet by the front door. My keys would be there. They would always be there because that is their designated place to be. They would be there because I am methodical and precise. They would be there because I am organized and accurate. My keys would always be there because I am a Taurus… and indeed they were right there.

I took the keys and passed through the front door without locking it behind me; my paternal responsibility to protect my family had vanished. I contemplated my neighborhood, pondering the best place to die. Parks came to my mind; there were several in the vicinity. They would all certainly be closed, as the hour approached midnight. The winner of the honor of hosting my final demise was Lone Mountain Park. It was the farthest away, and boasted large empty parking lots and near total darkness.

There I drove and backed my truck into my usual parking spot. I had been habitually parking there in that same spot for months after dropping my son off at school. I parked there to wait out my ex-wife who would still be in the house getting ready for work. I waited there for 30 minutes each morning before returning home. That would ensure that she would be gone from the house. I loathed the prospect of being alone in the house with her for any reason.

In retrospect I am amused by the fact that I “combat parked” my truck; that is, backed into the parking spot, which is a typical maneuver for those who wish to get away quickly when it comes time to go. My time to go would leave my truck all by itself. I surrendered to the notion that my body was responding to muscle memory and reflex. That was responsible for my final combat park.