a story. Part 7.

she tried to feel like herself while he was away. she bought a new canvass with the intention of filling it with something remarkable. she propped it up on his trunk and let her heart tell her brain what to paint. but all it felt was ache. and she didn't see much use in painting an entire canvass black. that type of thing was only original the first time it was done. and it had already been done. she'd seen it hanging in a museum one time when she was alone on a friday night trying to find some peace.

she left the canvass propped there for an entire day. for awhile she just sat on the couch and looked at its blankness. eventually, the entire room blurred to white and she thought about the spot on her neck that she wanted him to kiss and wondered if he was wearing his pink or red plaid. she missed the feeling of his cheek on days when he forgot to shave. she missed it because even after he left the room, she could still feel the burning on her skin.

she got up and cleared the dishes from their fancy lunch. she washed the crumbs down the sink, stared out the window and accidentally let the water run longer than it needed to. she was crying. it felt strange to miss someone so much. it's not like he had died, she told herself. but, still, she couldn't stop shaking.