The day George died was banal. Waking up. Orange Juice. Coffee. The Newspaper. Out the door. Forgot the car keys. Back inside. “Forgot the keys. Bye now”. “Bye”. No “I love you”. No second kiss. I did the washing up. I heard the car start. Quiet now. I put on some Puccini. I put on some slippers. I laid down on the couch. Everything as usual.


I wish I could tell you that I grieved for him, that I was torn up because my most beloved person was no more. I wish I could tell you that I had the moral fortitude to be selfless in that moment. I can’t. I was eaten up by anger towards him for leaving me so unannounced. I wondered how I was going to live on. I was worried about myself. The flower arrangements for the funeral were hastily picked out. I chose a simple coffin. The funeral went ahead without much decorum. George wouldn’t have wanted a big speech. So I gave none. Who would I have spoken to anyway? His family, which lived in Canada, had acknowledged his death without much dismay. None of them felt the need to head out to Ipswich for the funeral.


George had kissed me the night before. My lips were stained with red wine. His lips lingered on mine for a little while after the kiss was over. He lifted his head and I saw that his lips were red now too. Two drunken fools. In love. At least for my part. There was a distance between us that I could never quite overcome. I would tell him about my day. He would nod in acknowledgment but offer no comment on the day’s events.


I don’t know what his last thoughts were before he crashed. I don’t know what his thoughts were, ever. And thus, I live on, essentially as before: solitarily.


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