He picks up the scattered remnants of her. The long, dark strands of her hair that have found their way into the strangest places, the crumbs of her breakfast left strew on his pristine countertops, the warm scent of her that clings to his sheets and towels.
Even in her absence she is so present in his life, in his home.
He cannot bring himself to banish her and so he leaves her tiny imprints everywhere, lies down and presses his nose to the pillow that so recently cradled her head, collected her tears, and he counts the hours since she's been gone.
Gone to where he cannot reach her.
Cannot touch her.
Cannot protect her.
She called this morning, just to tell him that she was fine. To tell him she had been thinking of him and it's a change that makes him strangely calm.
And suddenly she's got him wondering how this space that is a reflection of all that he is can somehow feel so cold and empty without her in it.