Lydia

The sounds of keys hitting the table and pipes groaning as the faucet pours water into the basin wake me from what was already fitful sleep. The water cuts off and the door hinges creak. I hear the window squeak open and smile to myself as the other side of the bed dips down. A draft cools me for a moment when she pulls the blankets back but just as quickly as the warmth fled, it comes flooding back with her body heat. I hear the steady rhythm of her breathing as she falls into a deep sleep, I soon follow. 

The smell of bacon and pancakes fill the air and cheery, yellow streaks of sunlight filter through the blinds. I sit up in bed, reluctant to trade the warmth of our blankets for the cold waking world. I want to be where she is though, and I use that as motivation to drag myself out from between the cotton sheets. 

I walk into the kitchen, but she’s not there, there’s nothing on the stove or in the oven. There’s no evidence of her coming in from her night shift at the bakery. No evidence of her being here at all. The cat yowls, angry that I’ve slept late and neglected to feed him. Angry that Lydia isn’t here, or perhaps that I’m not Lydia. Tears prick at my eyes as I’m reminded of exactly what happened and exactly where Lydia is. I dump a can of wet food into the cat’s bowl. He seems satisfied enough with this. I think about stopping in the bathroom on the way back to the bedroom. Maybe I could wash my face, maybe I could take a full shower. I walk past the bathroom door, floorboards creaking under my weight. Another day. 

Our room, or my room, I suppose, is much greyer than when I pulled myself out of bed. The lighting hasn’t changed, nothing truly has changed, at least nothing about the room. I curl up on her side of the bed, my head on her pillow. Tears come without my consent as I drift off yet again into a half-awake, half-asleep state. 

Grocery bags rustle in the kitchen and cabinets open and close as Lydia puts the groceries away. The cat meows happily, he never sounds like that toward me. She must be back from the store. I can’t seem to pull myself from bed. Lydia walks into the room, stepping on that one creaky floorboard. She kisses me on the forehead, but when I lift my head to give her a kiss, she’s gone. I choke back a sob, not quite understanding why this is happening.

At one point or another, I made it to the couch. I’m sitting in her spot, her Netflix profile staring me down, daring me to delete it, to accept this. I can’t. I click into my account and continue the show we were watching together, knowing she’ll be mad I watched without her, knowing she’ll forgive me when I rewatch it with her. The cat curls up on my lap, purring and headbutting my hand. I find myself grateful that she insisted on getting him. I remember that day at the shelter, when she so affectionately named him “Littlefoot”, for his single white paw. I remember the second day we had him, he hissed at me and I not-so-affectionately began calling him “Bastard”.

My eyes glaze over as I stare at the screen. I refuse to let them travel too far down. I don’t want to see what’s on the mantle just by the bottom left corner of our TV. I think I hear Lydia running a bath down the hall, but I remind myself that she’s gone. Out of curiosity, I walk to the bathroom. Sure enough, no Lydia, no water in the tub. No one else is in my apartment. I turn on the faucet, ignoring the protests of the old pipes. The water takes a moment to run clear, but when it does, I drop the stopper into the drain. I sink into the bath, the warm water feels nice on my cold skin. I can’t remember the last time I took a bath. The soap smells like Lydia, and I have to fight back tears.

Getting dressed is much easier clean. I don’t feel the enormous weight of the many steps it will take to get me presentable enough to walk two blocks to the coffee shop. I dig through my drawers until I find an outfit Lydia never commented on. My walk is punctuated by worried looks from people walking past. Word gets around in such a small town, and no one has seen me in at least a month. Has it been that long? I’ve lost track. 

I sit at the little table for two we always sat at, my back to the window, her back to the rest of the store. I can feel her hand on mine, I can smell the too-sweet vanilla latte she insisted upon getting every time we were here. I can smell her perfume, all sweet and floral. I drink my black coffee and smile, letting myself enjoy the memory, letting myself remember she’s gone. 

On my walk home, I let myself think of all the things she’d chatter to me about. What her friends were up to, what our cat had done while I was at work. I feel the tears fall at the memory, but I don’t push it away. 

I swing the door open, greeting the cat warmly. He greets me back, almost tripping me as he weaves between my legs. I put an appropriate amount of food in his bowl, saving half in the can and covering it just as I’d watched Lydia do every morning and afternoon for the two years we’ve had him. I can almost smell her chocolate chip cookies and I’m reminded that I miss them. I’m reminded that she keeps the ingredients for them on hand at all times, “in case of emergencies” is what she always said. I pull her recipe box off the shelf and flip through the carefully lettered cards until I find the recipe. I do exactly as the card says, but I don’t know if I did a good job, they came out looking a little funny, but they taste okay.

I walk into the living room, looking at all of our pictures on the bookshelf. My eyes find their way to the mantle, to the little wooden box, to the picture frame laying face-down beside it. I set it up and her smiling face greets me as if it’s been waiting for me to do this. Tears stream down my face. I walk down the hallway and to the bedroom. It’s less grey than it was before. Still, nothing has truly changed. I shut the window and curl up on her side of the bed. Her smell is fading but still there. I want so badly for her to come in and kiss me on the forehead like she has so many times before. Maybe, in another life, she’ll do it again.