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I wished so much he was here.
The first tear rolled down my cheek. Stiffly, angrily, I wiped it away but another followed like some stupid product rolling off an assembly line.
“Go away,” I growled at my tears. “Go away!”
They kept coming, filling my eyes, dripping into the sink, wetting my chin, my shirt.
At last the sorrow broke through and I sobbed out loud. I stayed there for ages, crying into the sink, then I gave in and folded up, sliding my back down the cupboard and sitting on the floor with my head hanging in my hands. The tears filtered through my fingers like rain.
“Why didn’t you at least talk? Why?” The words echoed in my head.
They were plastic words that meant nothing, but I kept saying them when the tears choked me up so much that I stopped crying. Then I gripped my jeans hard until I hurt the flesh underneath. No one heard me crying and asking inane questions except the cat, who lay next to me in a curled-up bundle, purring his little heart out.
When I finally ran out of tears, I sat staring at the floor until the daylight went.
I heaved myself to my feet. Dark outside, mosquitoes were whining, my body was one huge, hot, prickly balloon. It seemed too big, as if my fingers were too far away and not mine. I shivered. Tired, so tired. I should eat.
I washed my face, stuck my head under the tap, and wiped my wet hair with a towel. Then I went back to bed. Being hungry seemed a good punishment.
I drifted off.
