Member-only story
Elaine
The kettle hissed long before she remembered to pour it. The sound had always comforted her. It was unconventional people used to say. Technology had moved on. But she had liked the ordinariness of the steam pouring upward into the air. It slowed down the process. Made tea a ritual. It had become part of their routine. But tonight, she barely registered the familiar noise. It just didn’t belong in the silence of the night. Felt out of place somehow. She set down the cups, placing them lightly on mismatched saucers. The clink of porcelain refocused her for a moment. Breathe.
Upstairs, in the makeshift bedroom, she imagined her wife was sleeping. Just sleeping. Dreaming perhaps. But content. The morphine has softened the edges. Made sleep a possibility. A kindness she was grateful for — especially now. The quiet signified peace. A moment of respite.
Except the clock. That bastard still ticked like a metronome in an Artaud production.
And the sun will come up too soon.
— — — — -
She asked me to.
The pillow is still on the floor, maybe I should put it behind her head. That might be a little too messed up, maybe I should go downstairs and throw it out. Or burn it. Or sleep with it. What do you do with something like that?
