Laundry

I get home and go to the fridge, grab a beer. I check if Mara's home, which she isn't, so I use the bottle opener fastened to the wall. She hates it and it makes a mess but boy is it fun. I do my best to be careful but it's still no use.

Something isn't right. I go into the living room and I know, something is not right. Wasn't there a picture there before? The bookshelf looks oddly sparse. I see a note on the dining table. She's sorry. She's gone.

Her shoes aren't by the front door, her coat isn't hung. Her toiletries aren't cluttering the bathroom. I go to the bedroom, the bedroom I shared with her. My closet, our closet, her things aren't there. It's as if she was never here at all.

There's a pile of laundry on my bed, a white load crinkled on a black comforter. A final act of kindness. I fall on it, hold it close. It is still warm. I see a hair, long and dark, stuck in a sock, and I pull it out.