I pace slowly about the flat, my eyes collecting pollen from everything: the carpet, in whose fibers countless clients have ensconced their footprints; the silkily writhing flames, I see them as if through thick glass--and the noises of London out the window, clops and bangs and yells. Birds twitter; their music tastes like cracked pepper on a salad eaten years ago.
I carry on my dreamy prowl in silence, and my ear pricks at thumps and muffled oaths above me. I trace the source, one creaking step at a time, and stand in the doorway.
His back is turned, his bed piled with boxes and bags. Drawers are flung open and the floor is littered with clothes and books.
The curtains blow in a fresh wind; I smell it, I see him, I remember everything, just as before.
All the same…and all terribly different.
My mind is split, seeing all that transpired, all that is happening and things still hidden from us. How does the world repose, while humans whirl about the surface in a frenzy of activity? How is it our flat stayed just the same, when we both changed so very much—could our life really go on normally?
Hand to head, I sank into a chair.
He looked over his shoulder. "Are you regretting my moving back?"