Fragments of fiction

The room is all right, the laundry doesn’t sit at the side of the bed anymore. The walls are a pretty plum and you wouldn’t find much on them apart from the occasional post-it.

There is something about the windows that makes me uneasy though. They look empty, lacking a certain window like quality. They make you want to jump out of them.

She left a note before disappearing just like that. I try not to sound too dramatic about it, it takes a lot of effort and to make things even less dramatic is the fact that I had been expecting it for sometime now, quite sometime now.

I also knew where I could go looking for evidence, traces that lead me to her. Her journal underneath her pillow, it had been underneath her pillow all her life ever since I gifted it to her on her 12^th birthday.

She never was fussy about her journal. The room keys on the other hand were quite a big deal. They went into her jewelry box that sat at the bottom of the vase swamped by some moss and then the flowers. The dying flowers.

Did I tell you about the note? It said:

ZadieSmith. That’s my password. Just in case….

Just make sure you check my mailbox at least once every week.

Xoxoxo

I’ll try to be back.

What could I say? I just walked back to the kitchen with a heavy heart. I poured myself a cup of coffee. I glanced at the newspaper. I buttered my toast. I boiled eggs. I did everything and anything to keep myself from being a pretentious bore. But everything was like decafe, what’s the point? 

I wasn't sad anymore. I was actually taken in by envy. I envied her walking out of that door without ever knowing when she’d be back.

I dug dirt. She sank her feet in dirt.

I didn’t go to work the day she left, or the day after or the day after the day after. All of a sudden I wanted to go back, back to the good old days, back when we were young and drunk on everything beautiful.

I pour myself a drink and then two.

Its 2 am. I left the door open; she might just walk in anytime now and pretend nothing ever happened. Like it was all a big joke, or like it was all my fault. She always did that didn’t she?

I think I’ve had enough of drinks. I think I am done for the day, but the truth is you are never really done for the day.

To be contd.