It started raining as I walked home. I’d forgotten to bring an umbrella, but I didn’t mind getting wet. It felt good in a strange way, the cold and the damp. It made me feel slightly less numb. It reminded me that I hadn’t died even though it felt a bit like I had.
Yes, I’d turned into a sad sack of depressing shite. I’d soon start writing poetry and crying to Celine Dion songs if I weren’t careful. But it didn’t help that there were reminders of Kate everywhere: a pair of socks she’d left in my flat; a note she’d written me that said UR A SEXY BEAST; and the flat she’d left over two weeks ago.
Sometimes I stood in front of her door, where she no longer lived, as if by force of will I could summon her back.
I’d since returned to teaching, throwing myself into my job. I went in early and stayed late. I took on things in the department that no one else wanted to do simply to avoid going home. Yet every time I went into my office, the memories of the last time I’d seen Kate were always
