Member-only story
How a Woman Destroys a Man’s Life
There are things worth it and this is one of them
There’s a smell that remained on his pillow.
It’s not perfume. It’s something more primal.
Skin. Sweat.
His essence that got imprinted on the fabric after years of sleeping on the same side of the bed. And I, like an idiot, smell that pillow every night at 3 AM trying to find him there.
But the smell is fading. Weaker each day. And in a few weeks there’ll be nothing left. Not even his smell will remain.
He died three weeks ago and I still haven’t washed the sheets. I can’t. Washing the sheets means accepting it’s over. That I’ll never wake up with his weight beside me again.
With his hand searching for me still half asleep.
With that raspy morning voice saying “good morning” like each morning with me was a gift.
How many times did I respond “good morning” without even opening my eyes?
How many times did I pull away when his hand searched for me because “I was still sleeping”?
How many mornings did I waste because I thought there’d be a thousand more?
