Interview

Mother grips the edge of the door, already pushing her way inside.

"We need to talk."

I chuckle at her neutral face. She doesn't look like someone who's regretting about what they have done. "We don't."

Annoyance flickers across her face. "We do, Violetta. Now stop acting like a child and let me inside."

Anger bubbles up my throat. A child? I shove her back outside, slamming the door on her face. I let out a slow breath and walk back to the living room. 

"Where was I ?” My voice cuts through the room, reaching no one in particular.

I snap my finger's, once the previous thoughts fall back into place.

“The couch." 

Without thinking too much about it, and more because I need to be busy. To forget about mother and her betrayal, and most importantly, erase Mark from my environment, I place both hands against it and begin pushing. The legs drag softly against the floor as I move it across the room toward the opposite wall. Toward where I originally wanted it. I stop once it settles into place and look at it for a second. Better. I head toward the kitchen next. The black cutlery set sits perfectly arranged inside the drawers. Mark picked those too. He said they were sleek and minimal. I crouch down and pull open one of the lower cabinets near the pantry, reaching for the boxes I hid in there months ago. I pull one out, the one filled with gold cutlery and open it carefully.

This is the set I bought before Mark wrinkled his nose at them and asked why I was so obsessed with making everything look overdecorated.

I start replacing them quietly, removing the black pieces one by one.

Once done, I stand for a while, staring at the gold cutlery now sitting inside the drawers. It changes the room more than I expected.

My eyes move across the space again, catching the grey walls, the dark shelves, the heavy furniture. Mark is still everywhere. In every decision. Every adjustment. Every compromise I made because loving him had slowly turned into accommodating him.

I turn and head downstairs. The basement smells faintly of dust and paint thinner when I switch on the lights. Boxes line the walls, some still unopened from when the apartment was being furnished. I walk past them until I find what I’m looking for tucked near the far corner. The paint cans.

I crouch and pull one forward, wiping my fingers across the lid before reading the label. Warm ivory. The color I originally chose for the living room.

I remember standing in the paint store with sample cards spread across the counter while Mark frowned behind me. I grab the paint, brushes, and rollers before heading back upstairs.

The apartment is silent except for the soft sounds of movement as I spread old sheets across the floor and pry open the paint can. The sharp scent fills the room immediately.

I start with the wall behind the couch. The first stroke cuts through the grey cleanly. I keep going, dragging the roller back and forth until the dark color disappears beneath something lighter.

Hours pass that way. One wall after another. I lose track of time somewhere between the living room and hallway. Music would usually be playing during something like this, but tonight the silence feels easier and better. Every now and then my phone vibrates faintly from inside my bag where I left it untouched. I don’t check it.

The apartment slowly changes around me.

By the time I finish the last wall, there are faint streaks of paint across my hands and along my forearms. My shoulders ache when I straighten, but the space finally looks more like mine.

I rinse the brushes in the sink before heading upstairs. The bedroom still feels untouched compared to the rest of the apartment. Mark’s side of the closet is already full. I had moved his clothes in weeks ago so he wouldn’t have to carry much once we moved in to our new apartment. His shirts hang neatly beside his jackets, arranged by color because he liked things organized that way.

For a second, I simply stare at them. Then I pull a suitcase from the corner of the closet and place it on the bed. One by one, I begin taking the clothes down. The hangers scrape softly against the metal rod as I slide them free before dropping them into the suitcase exactly as they are. Shirts. Jackets. Trousers. Even the tie he once complained I bought in the wrong shade of blue.

Once the suitcase fills, I zip it shut and drag it off the bed before rolling it downstairs. The wheels bump softly against each step on the staircase until I reach the front door.

I leave it there beside the wall. I’ll send it to his office tomorrow. The apartment is quiet again after that. I walk through it slowly, turning off lights as I go before stopping in the bathroom. My reflection catches briefly in the mirror above the sink. Paint stains streak my skin. My hair is messily tied back. Even my eyes have already thinned from exhaustion.

I look away from it and turn on the bathtub instead. Steam slowly fills the room while the water rises. By the time I sink into it, the clock on the wall reads two forty-three. I lean back against the tub and reach for my phone from the counter, finally checking it for the first time in hours.

The notifications flood the screen. Missed calls from Mark. Messages from my mother. Voicemails. I scroll past all of them without opening a single one. Then, an email catches my attention. The subject line makes me pause. For a moment, I think I’m reading it wrong. I open it and the company logo sits at the top of the screen.

Six months ago, I sent them an application after staying awake half the night rewriting my portfolio. I remember sitting at the kitchen counter while Mark laughed softly from the couch, asking why I was wasting time applying for jobs I would never realistically take.

The position required relocation. Long hours. Constant travel. Not exactly future-wife material, he had called it but I applied anyway partly out of spite, partly because I wanted to know if there was still a version of me that wanted things outside of him. I never expected a response which now one sits open in my hands.

We are pleased to inform you—

I read the email thrice. They want to schedule an interview.

The position is based in another city, miles from here. The salary listed at the bottom is more money than I expected. More than enough to start over somewhere else if I wanted to. My thumb hovers over the screen for a second before I open the reply box.