I waited a hundred and fifty days for you to turn up at the right door, to knock three times before I leaped out of my chair: the one I’d been perching on for the past five months, yes that one. I was dressed in rumours and the stench of stale memories that I had been storing despite its expiry date, but you. You looked pale, a lighter shade of every colour I had imagined you to be. You wore your barely conscious self like an albatross around your neck and I couldn’t help but take a step back towards the chair.
You looked exhausted, like the truth had finally caught up with you and you couldn’t do a thing.
I winced. That’s all I did.
I winced and I let the night go. I let it dissolve into the watered down beer we sipped. I let it crush under the weight of our rusted familiarity. I let it surpass our expectations by keeping you uninformed. And once you were gone, I went back, for the first time in months, to the left side of the bed and gave in to a heavy slumber.