After the Divorce. The Show Is Over

Mish? Something happened? Problems at work?
He looked at me. No. Not at me. Through me—through the way a person examines an old, annoying thing. A chair that’s long overdue to be thrown out, but somehow your hands never reach it.
Dash, we need to talk.
My stomach twisted with an icy rope. I turned off the burner with a trembling hand.
Something with your mom?
My voice sounded alien—high, squeaky.
No. With us.
I remember leaning my hip against the countertop, feeling that my legs were no longer mine. They turned into stilts—uncooperative, limp.
Dash, I’m leaving.
Silence. Only the vegetables on the cooling skillet kept hissing faintly, letting off a slightly burnt, sweetish smell.
What? Where to? A business trip?
I clung to reality—for any explanation that wouldn’t shatter everything.
You said only yesterday that
I’m leaving you. Forever.