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"Obviously," I say.

"The lamp," he says. "My grandmother's. That's coming."

"I know. I want it here."

"The books." He thinks. "My good headphones." A pause. "My Xbox — haven't touched it since you happened, but it's a good one. And my television is bigger than yours."

I look at him.

"That's it?" I say.

"Maya kept most of the furniture when we split," he says. Simply. "And I haven't bought anything since… well. I've been here." He pauses. "I didn't need things. I had everything here."

I look at him for a moment.

"How much bigger is the television," I say.

"Noticeably."

"Bring it," I say. "It's a practical upgrade."

He stares at me. Then laughs. "Only you."

"My grandmother's lamp, a neglected Xbox, and a bigger television," he says. "That's essentially my contribution to this household."

"And yourself," I say.

He looks at me.

"That's the main contribution," I say. "The rest is details."

He puts his arm around me. I let him.

"Everything else goes," he says. "Marktplaats. I don't need it. I never needed it. I've had everything I needed since approximately May."

I look at the apartment.

"Since end of August," I say.

"Fine," he says. "End of August."

I look at the ceiling.

He calls the landlord on Friday morning.

I am in the kitchen making coffee, not listening, when I hear the tone of the conversation change. I come to the doorway.

Patrick is standing in the sitting room with the phone to his ear and the expression of someone receiving unexpected information.

"Tomorrow," he says. To the phone. "You mean…” A pause. "Right. Yes. I understand." Another pause. "No, it’s… yes, that's fine. I'll have everything out by tomorrow evening."

He hangs up.

He looks at me.

"The landlord has a couple who want the apartment," he says. "They've been on the waiting list." A pause. "If I can be out by tomorrow evening, he'll waive the notice period."

I look at him.