Today's story started yesterday. Oh, and my valentine's day was awful, thanks for asking. I ended up sleeping on the couch. Yay.
Page Two:
Thomas spent the next week dissecting their shared life. The apartment was cluttered with boxes and books, the hastily gathered stacks of photos he could no longer bear to see stuffed into cupboards, her clothes all donated and gone.
Jenna's mother had shuffled through to collect what she felt was appropriate, then left him in the wreckage of his home. She had taken the stuffed animals, Jenna's high school year books, and a couple of the appliances. Thomas didn't complain, couldn't even bring himself to look the woman in the eye. She took what she wanted, raided the dwindling trove of Thomas' memories of her daughter, and then she had gone away.
He was orbitting the apartment in numb circles, passing from room to room, rearranging piles of junk according to some unknown geometry of mourning. He found the box behind a pile of dresses, stuffed in the back of her closet.
It was a shoe box, the edges worn soft with age. Thomas sat down on the bed and folded it open. A smell drifted up, a hint of flowers and spice, the barest edge of sweat. They were letters, pictures, a tiny plastic box full of jewelry. Nice jewelry. Thomas lifted out the first letter, two months old.
Dear Jenna, my love, my life, the angel of my dreams. Your eyes are candles, delicate and bright, your neck...
Deep inside Thomas, things started to crumble, the dust of his heart tumbled through his ribs. It got worse.
Page Two:
Thomas spent the next week dissecting their shared life. The apartment was cluttered with boxes and books, the hastily gathered stacks of photos he could no longer bear to see stuffed into cupboards, her clothes all donated and gone.
Jenna's mother had shuffled through to collect what she felt was appropriate, then left him in the wreckage of his home. She had taken the stuffed animals, Jenna's high school year books, and a couple of the appliances. Thomas didn't complain, couldn't even bring himself to look the woman in the eye. She took what she wanted, raided the dwindling trove of Thomas' memories of her daughter, and then she had gone away.
He was orbitting the apartment in numb circles, passing from room to room, rearranging piles of junk according to some unknown geometry of mourning. He found the box behind a pile of dresses, stuffed in the back of her closet.
It was a shoe box, the edges worn soft with age. Thomas sat down on the bed and folded it open. A smell drifted up, a hint of flowers and spice, the barest edge of sweat. They were letters, pictures, a tiny plastic box full of jewelry. Nice jewelry. Thomas lifted out the first letter, two months old.
Dear Jenna, my love, my life, the angel of my dreams. Your eyes are candles, delicate and bright, your neck...
Deep inside Thomas, things started to crumble, the dust of his heart tumbled through his ribs. It got worse.