I lock the door and check the windows are shut; that had always been Tony’s job – the man’s job, organising the house before bed. I damp down the pain of thinking about him. They are just doors. I can lock them myself.
I walk around the place methodically, turning off lights and go into the bedroom. I pull back the covers and climb into the bed. My bed now. That bed has history. Tony is the only man I have slept with in that bed. I purchased the bed just after I met him, before we became anything but just after meeting . So many nights were spent in that bed, tangled and close. Before we lived together when he was not with me, there, in that bed I lay there whispering to him for hours that felt like only minutes. There is a lot of history in that bed.
I climb out of bed and go back to the loungeroom and curl up in the corner of the lounge, waiting for sleep to find me or the morning to come – whichever comes first.