Dead Flowers | H.S.

Prologue

Calm, cool air gently touched my nose and pinched my cheeks as I stood completely still in the living room, useless keys dangling from my fingers like rotting fruit. Harry still left the door unlocked, or perhaps he only left it unlocked whenever he knew I was coming home.

Sticky Fingers was still on the record player. The gold platforms from the nights spent at the disco and my tennis shoes from early morning farmer's market trips were still sloppily thrown beside the door. My favorite lipstick and half-empty mascara were sitting in the bathroom, gleaming in the light of the crescent moon. My tooth brush, my slippers, my underwear, my high school sweater, my favorite hair ribbon, my red jumpsuit hanging on the back of the door; all evidence of me and my life there was displayed around the apartment like a museum. My exhibit included a layer of dust settled over my objects and a careful array of objects that were neither needed nor uncared for.

I stepped slowly around the silk shirt in the middle of the living room floor and past the record player with my stack of records beside it, disorganized and half opened.

The moonlight cascaded into the bedroom as a luscious, thick stream of illuminated moonstone brushing over every item in the bedroom. Even my last glass of water was still on the bedside table. Wuthering Heights, my glasses, a cereal spoon; they were waiting for me.

Harry lay on my side of the bed, head buried deep into the pillow. I wondered if it smelled like the blush on my cheeks or the shampoo in my hair or the sleepy lines pressed into my face. I wondered if he could still smell me, even after all this time.

He had not bought new sheets or a new comforter. He had not moved the postcards I had bought just to pin up on the walls, even though two of them were crooked. Not even the once wet towel hanging on the back of the door was misplaced.

I left my clothing in a heap of second skins beside Harry's.

His side of the bed was unfamiliar; stale, a little cold. For a moment, I hesitated before putting my arms over him. All the sentences unmurmured between us, all the syllables dying on our tongues, all the hurt in our hearts.

Then I pressed my breasts to his back, my naked hips to the back of his, my nose to the back of his neck that smelled so fragrant of fatigue and soap, my feet to his calves. After only a moment, I was home again. Every nook and cranny of me was full of Harry and his scent, his presence. I was home.