When I open the fridge, my empty shelves stare back, the light on but nothing too appetizing.
A lonely yogurt sits to one side. I pick it up. It’s in date; that’s a bonus. It will have to do.
It’s enough to be able to say I’ve eaten, because I’m sure he’ll ask. He reminded me to eat breakfast under his breath before he left this morning.
The kettle whistles. A strong teaspoonful of coffee, two sugars, and a good gallon of milk. I don’t normally take sugar and milk. But I feel like today’s the day I’m allowed it.
I sit down at my breakfast bar and force myself to eat. The lid of the yogurt peels back slowly, the remnants sticking to the plastic. A little falls onto my finger, and I pop it in my mouth.
It doesn’t taste sweet.
Just nothing.
I force down another bite anyway. Enough to say I’ve eaten.
Giving up, I throw everything in the trash, even my mug.
I’m walking to the bathroom when I realize what I’ve done, turning back and groaning, knowing I’m going to have to fish it out of the rest of the crap in the bin.
Finally, in the bathroom, I strip off my robe, switch on the shower, and step under the hot water. It flows blissfully over my skin. I close my eyes, letting it hit my face.
Within minutes, I know I need to keep moving, because if I don’t, I’ll just stop and stay here all day. Ben will find me wrinkled like a prune.
With a towel wrapped around my head, then another circling my body, I make my way back to my bedroom. The still crumpled sheets look inviting. I’m tempted to melt into them once more. But I don’t.
My walk-in wardrobe is one of my prized possessions. I scan the rails. So much to choose from for my day-to-day.
Then I look at the other side. More casual. The version of me I don’t use.
For February, it’s actually quite a nice day. The sun’s out. It’s not raining for a change. I crack open a window, and even a bird sings.
So I return to the wardrobe and pick out a pair of pale gray loose-fitting trousers and a pink sweater. Warm enough that I shouldn’t really need a jacket, but thin enough that if I do, I won’t overheat. That seems a sensible decision if I’m in the hospital.
One last glance. I’m staring in the mirror, running the brush through my hair again.
Subconsciously, my other hand lifts under my arm. I feel the small bump that started this bloody fiasco. Maybe if I’d stayed quiet, it would have just gone away.
But I know that’s not the case, and I know it’s not a risk worth taking.
Maybe a few weeks ago I would have thought, well, I’ll just see what happens. But when I felt it, it wasn’t just fear I felt. It was sadness that now I’ve actually got something to lose. Someone to lose. And I needed to find out what it was.
I slip my hairbrush into my handbag then pick up my phone.
Dozens of emails. Multiple messages. More people than I can cope with demanding a piece of my time. They can wait today.
I slide it into my bag, then move to stand at the window, waiting for Ben.
As I look down, his car’s already there. He’s early.
The door buzzes.
I never saw him walking from the car. My finger taps the button without even checking who it is. I know it’s him.
He appears at the door within a few minutes, obviously having climbed the stairs two at a time. Chest heaving, cheeks red.
I’m standing in the doorway. Waiting. Just the sight of him makes today a little less scary.
“Hey,” he says, leaning forward and touching my elbow before placing a soft kiss on my lips. Strangely reassuring. I’m so damn glad he’s here.