Ridiculous that something so trivial could prove to be so annoying. Habit, of course, the habit of someone used to living alone, used to having their space, their way. She broke off a sprig of grapes, the way she always had, ate them, discarded the stem. They tasted better that way. His way was to pick them from the bunch, leaving damp spears attached to the skeletal stalk. What difference did it make, he’d asked.
She broke off another cluster. Eight grapes. She ate them one by one. And tried, very hard, to think of something else about him that she wouldn’t miss, now that he was gone.
Efficient and clean. Leaves you with an echo once the words are gone. Well done.ReplyDelete