The sun still rises as night gives way to the harsh light of day. The neighbor's chirpy alarm clock still sings it sharp song at 6:30 on the dot. The hallway floorboards still creak at the hastening footfalls of tenants struggling to beat rush hour traffic. The horns still blare obscenities as angry passengers avoid swerving metal quadrupeds.
My weary legs still carry me to the bathroom, where the shower still sprays its liquid heat onto my shoulders in a vain attempt to relax me. The aging towel still feels scratchy as it absorbs the scented water from my damp skin. The glass-covered silver still mirrors the reflection of my swollen, bloodshot eyes while I stand there for far too long. My makeup still covers the slight unevenness of my skin, and the eyeliner still gives definition to, but cannot conceal, the vacancy in my eyes. The silk robe still covers my body, but does not impart any warmth to it.
The living room carpet still sinks under my slight frame as I make my way to the kitchen, where the refrigerator still hums as it cools its near-empty interior. My hand still brushes an intact packet of sunflower seeds that have taken up permanent residency there, as I reach for the coffee pot to pour the steaming liquid from it. I still wonder if I will ever throw those seeds away, but know that I will not, at least for a very long time. The coffee still scalds my tongue as I impatiently take a sip, hoping that some warmth will come into my body this way, and I still mentally curse when it doesn t.
The couch still looks inviting with the light from the blinds illuminating early morning streaks of sunlight across its cushions, as I pass by it on the way back to the bedroom. Reaching my closet, I note that it is still full of cloth and leather that compile together to create a respectable business wardrobe. That wardrobe is still sorted by color, and the material of the only color I reach for is still structured, not soft.
His voice still rings out from the bathroom with a complaint about the lack of hot water (his voice will never ring out again). His long arms still wrap tightly around my naked shoulders, begging me not to get dressed just yet (his arms will never wrap around anything but his own decomposing body again). His eyes still look facetiously wounded when I smile impishly and tell him we are already going to be late for work and pull the shirt over my shoulders anyway (his eyes will never render an expression but the veil of death again). His fingers still nimbly grasp each of my shirt s buttons, fastening them from top to bottom, as if I couldn t do it myself (his fingers will never grasp anything but a decaying rose that I will place there again). His lips still briefly brush against my own before, just as quickly, vanishing into a haze of memory.
The heater still blows warm air into this room that can never be warm again, not without his body. Our unborn child still stirs inside my belly, but not without contorting my face into a strange mixture of anguish and joy. My hands still pull my trousers and jacket on, but not without trembling from my weakening resolve to bury my emotions along with him. The rumpled sheets I awoke in still encase his heather-grey Knicks shirt, and will until my unstill hands have reduced it to threads. Those rumpled sheets now encase my clothed, twisted body, as I sob into his pillow.
Today is a day like no other.