Prompt: A woman wakes up a week after her husband’s funeral. Describe how her morning routine has changed without mentioning her husband.
Note: It turns out that when you start a conversation with “Hey, honey, I have to write about when you’re dead,” the resultant eyebrow twitch and physical removal to a safe distance should be expected. It is, in fact, an appropriate response.
***
The silence was crushing her.
She lay in bed, unwilling to move. It would be generous to still call the late golden sunlight streaming inside “morning.” Light had to be compressed luminosity, full daylight strong, to meander its way past the blackout curtains.
Mornings should be muted dark and nudging, foggy without caffeine, rushed with an exit goal in mind. Or on those rare occasions where time was forgotten, playful and filled with laughter, twisted sheets and warmth.
She turned her head away from the window, repulsed by lost memories. The gaping void of a perfectly-made bed half slapped her in the face as it had every day of the past week instead.
The resultant nausea got her out of bed, at least. She bared her teeth in the mirror, avoiding her reflection’s eyes. Hatred for the toothpaste’s false advertising welled up inside her as she went through mechanical motions. Her smile would not be bright by the time she finished, she knew.
Silence continued to follow her, omniscient and ubiquitous.
The kitchen was finally empty of well-wishers and commiserations she didn’t want. The freezer was stuffed with food she wouldn’t eat. She’d been caught trying to throw it out, but spared the usual and expected lecture on wastefulness. Her mother’s diatribe would have been better than the pitying look.
Automatically setting out two cups for coffee, her hand clenched around the mug on the left.
She wondered if it would be better to shatter it, smash it into pieces. But she put it back, unable to bear the loss of one more memory.
She had no idea how long she stood there, staring into hollow oblivion, waiting for coffee from a cold and quiet machine.
A newly installed door thrust open into the kitchen, hinges squeaking with disuse. Her hand convulsed on the counter at the noise. She turned to find a shaggy black face with a blunt snout and giant brown eyes staring up at her, having trouble with a door flap installed for a giant.
The woman twisted away. What had made her brother give her a puppy? He hated dogs. Dogs only reminded her of unfulfilled dreams. What was she going to do with a gamboling mass of fur that at over twenty pounds was a tenth of his full-grown size?
She sighed. Panting noises followed her around the kitchen. “You have food, newfie,” she muttered downward, and received a cold nose on her leg as a reward.
The couch enveloped her with the ease of long practice. Brown, to hide the inevitable coffee stains, and now apparently also fur. She frowned as the puppy clambered up beside her. It took him three uncoordinated attempts to succeed before he snuggled into her lap, drooling.
“Get down,” she said, but she didn’t mean it. The puppy closed his eyes. Her hand tangled in thick, warm fur, and she realized his breathing had kept the silent fugue from returning.
“Guess I should give you a name.”
***
Edit: Link to More Odds than Ends week one prompt list.
