chicating

Kay Howard came back to work before she was ready.(Not that she was the type never to miss a day anymore; life had had a way of convincing her to make time for herself, and for them, in the past few years) She came back before she was ready this time, though, because she preferred the structure to coming upon John’s clothes and books and whatever he called “detritus” scattered about her place as though he would pick it up any second. And, because they shared the space only part-time, she almost did really keep expecting him, despite the condolence notes and other tokens that were collecting at home, unremarked. Not to be rude, but she couldn’t face them yet. And, despite being the one with the hard-headed logic, she left most of his things where he put them, just clearing a spot at the kitchen table and at one of her barstools so she could eat, read what was left of the paper “Sun”, and curse whatever part of her mind had led her to wish to hear herself think. There was not much good to listen to, now, but she kept trying.
If she wanted to break down for some reason(God, why? Putting one foot in front of the other when she’d mostly lost interest was hard enough, wasn’t it?) she could think about how it was all so sudden that some of his clothes had gone through her wash this week. They were still in her clothes dryer,wrinkling away, as if he would ever root through them looking for a lucky shirt and bitching about her static cling. Over time, she’d learned not to trust him with the laundry, fiend for fabric softener though he was, and instead say “That’s not what you said last night!” And, indeed, it never was.