I wake up a good forty five minutes before my alarm is set to go off. Unable to return to the sweet, dreamless sleep of moments ago, I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling. All of my thoughts are of her. My hand, outstretched, lays palm-down on what was her side of the bed. Still is her side of the bed to me, even though she has not slept in it for almost two weeks.
I don't move until the alarm clock begins its interminable chiming and even then it's only to press the snooze button. I can afford to torture myself for another nine minutes.
Nine minutes that pass all too quickly. I drag my weary body downstairs in search of breakfast but there is no cereal left, and no clean bowl to eat it from if there was. The fruit juice smells a tad sharp but I drink it anyway, straight from the carton, and head upstairs to shower, swirling and sloshing the dregs between gulps.
A joyless shower that does little to cleanse or refresh, I towel off and pad, naked, back to my room where I stand in front of my open wardrobe and stare at the clothes within.
Specifically I stare at her clothes. Several changes of clothes - thongs, tights, vest tops - all folded neatly and nestled on the shelf I cleared for her. Several of her dresses hang like vampire bats from the rail.
In my junk room I select a box and empty the contents onto the floor. Mostly rubbish - old letters and bank statements, unrecycled magazines, flyers for nights and gigs never attended, forgotten photos that have stuck together in solidarity - and memories from childhood packed up tight and cleared out of the parental home but never unpacked, never welcomed to the new life. The box will suffice.
Once all her clothes are packed away I place the box in the hallway, by the front door, mark it with my trusty Big Black Pen: HERS.
Then I get ready for work.
I am half an hour late.
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