THE LIBRARY

The noise of the dog retching wakes me from my restless dream. By the time I’ve decided whether I feel relieved or disappointed, the day already feels ruined — so I make a crestfallen brew, stare out at the muddy ocean below, and try to remember why staying inside has suddenly become unacceptable.

Those people feel like ghosts now. I hope some fragment of them is still there in that arcade — the machine humming, the claw dropping, the small improbable win looping forever. A moment suspended in fluorescent light, before grief, before knowing what it would cost to love someone that way.

We all keep staring at the place where our lives are about to come to an end. I think about what he would do if he were here. What he would say. I stare at Samantha and she she stares back, before beginning to slowly shake her head.

The absence of those essential front pockets hurt me more than the missing lining, like I wouldn’t be able to hold his hand. That’s always where he held mine — inside his front pocket. When it rests on the back of my rickety but favourite wooden chair, it tricks me into thinking he’s just upstairs, using the bathroom.

I don’t know exactly how many days it’s been. I stopped recording them. My guess is more than three hundred. I’ve counted at least three seasons, based on the weather - out there. Darkness has been the most consistent reminder that what were once normal days have passed. Night-time arrives like an echo of something vaguely familiar — but which now feels less like an invitation to rest and more like an intrusion.

The days roll into each other. I try to keep myself busy with errands and overdue decorating. I’m currently on my eighth coat of Forest Green in the hallway. I attempt my usual precision — he hated decorating, never had the patience — but in the end I’m just slapping it on like a toddler at playgroup. Still no word from the coroner or funeral directors. Apparently, there’s a queue to die. He would have found that funny.