It would only be one day. Twenty-four hours. Less than that, even. Only a day in the sense that we measure time by rounding up. We were carefree like that.
The house was quiet without you. The morning began as it used to before we met. Several orgasms before breakfast. Empty, but functional. One after another. I remembered how to be without you, in that sense.
Breakfast followed: two scrambled eggs with a pad of butter and topped with white pepper. An arugula salad on the side. A matcha whisked and sipped on a sunny walk through the neighborhood.
I only pulled my phone out of my pocket once to see that you had arrived at your destination safely, then listened to the birds and screaming cicadas the rest of the way, feeling a bit superior, if i’m honest, than the others who need constant technological accompaniment. There were two little boys running around with white kites. I wondered if we would have a child one day, and if they would remember to hold onto the string or let their kite float away with the wind. You would be the kind of father who was fine with it either way. You would be the kind of father who made me feel okay with having a son. As long as he would be just like you.
At home, the nervous energy of aloneness on a Saturday still flowing through me, I cleaned the entire house. Even washed the bed linens down to the sheets. Sent you a message about how selfless I had been, putting that duvet cover back on all by myself.
Afterward, I took advantage of the quiet to watch back to back movies—the kind that made me cry— something I would prefer not to let you see, but only because you would laugh in that disaffected way, not letting me feel truly depressed about the made up scenarios I had been invested in the past two hours.
I tried to stay awake until you were supposed to walk through the front door, but I must have fallen asleep.
It was morning again, and the sun was shining through the blinds. Your side of the bed was still empty, clean and crisp. The pillows no longer smelled of you.
It was my fault, my erasure of you is why you never made it back.
The house is quiet without you.
It is not home.
I love this.
Simple, yet elegant. You can feel the heartache.