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Washing the sheets killed her.
She didn't know she was going to do it today.
In the bathtub, she waited for the spent hot water to cool while she soaked and looked at the fading burgundy paint on the toenails she painted before she went away with him to her family's Christmas.
she felt like a fool.
In the bath, she had noted that she had only cried the tiniest bit this morning - such a victory - maybe not even two teardrops. But stripping those sheets off the bed, that fucking killed her.
seeing his used q-tips in the trash as she was throwing away the symbolic dead roach from under the bed - she had to fight the urge to pull one out and kiss it.
As she was sobbing so dramatically - such a feeler this one - stripping the bed, she paused with the bundle of $400 sheets in her hands (they were real cotton y'all) and kneeled/collapsed on them to her knees and prayed with every ounce of faith she had - probably as much as the thimble of love he had had for her.
"please god. forgive me for my sins. please let me feel joy again. please connect me with someone to love and love me. please bring him back to me."
then she blindly walked to the washer and dumped them in.
They were spinning around now.
cleo came in the window and life resumed.
hopefully.
She would get used to it.
what other choice.
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