She moves through her kitchen on a Saturday morning, her bare feet padding quietly from the table to the sink. Feels alone despite the warmth on her skin and the patterns on the tile floor from the sun that seeps through the window above her sink, the one that looks out into the courtyard of her building. Feels alone despite the short light brown hair that sticks to her t-shirt where the fabric stretches across her breasts.
She runs warm water over a plate covered in syrup. As she wipes it away with a sponge, the water on her skin is the only thing that offers her the contentment she’s been looking for. She sets the plate down at the bottom of the sink and lets the water run over both her hands, closes her eyes. She can see him, syrup on his chin. It weighs her down instead of making her lighter.
There are traces of him everywhere, yet he’s never really here. There’s the style section of the Washington Post sprawled across the kitchen table covered in bits of eggs and pancakes. There’s a half finished cup of coffee and a chair pushed out from under the table. He’s a ghost and this is the only proof she has that he even exists.
They walk back and forth to each other now that she lives close. “Good exercise, right?” he’d chuckled and she’d agreed with a silent smile.
And now she swears she can hear the soles of his shoes against the sidewalk.
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