She rolled onto the left side, Paul's side, of the bed and frowned- even as she was deep in a dreamless sleep. The bed felt so huge and so vacant when Paul mwasn't there. There was no one snoring beside her and the room felt so incomplete, though she never liked his snores that much. But the silence was eerie it stung the drums in her ears. 'Paul,' she heard someone whisper in the deathly silence. Then she heard it again, in a whisper that was softer, more like a caress. she was starting to dream, she knew, and she was dreaming of Paul. Soon, he would pop into view wearing his old faded blue jeans and worn out black shirt with the word My Wife Doesn't know printed boldly in the front. She'd bought it for him as a joke and he'd laughed at it so hard she feared the words actually meant something. But he put her fears to rest when, not laughing anymore, he pulled her close and told her, "But you always know, love."
Yes, she always knows. She does. That's what he said.
But the cream-colored walls came into view instead, then the closet, then the vanity mirror, then their whole tidy bedroom (mostly because Paul insisted it to be that way). Still, there was no Paul. There were no faded jeans and black shirt. "Paul," she heard a whisper again, then realized that she was hearing her own voice, searching and unsure in the deafening quiet. She realized she wasn't dreaming. She was was wide awake in their bedroom that contained only her, cold and lonely that night. She realized she's been calling out to Paul so many times only to have the unmerciful silence reply. How she hated not having Paul around. It was almost like a crippling. She sat up on the bed, leaning on the pillow that was supposed to be cradling Paul's head. The lights were on- a bright contrast against how she felt. When Paul was around, the lights were always off at night. he never forgot to accomplish that chore. She looked around her, unsure of what she was looking for.
Then something caught her eye. It was Paul's scheduler, still looking new. Paul knew how to take care of his things.
(like they had life of their own, love)
Not really thinking about what she was doing, she reached out for the leather-covered notebook. There was his pen inserted inside it (how he loved his pens) and instantly, the scheduler opened where the pen was. She found herself staring at today's date, May 6. On the thin green-colored lines, her husband wrote: Goodbye, love. A shiver crawled up her spine. She closed the notebook in a snap, not wanting to see the strokes of the pen that wrote those words anymore. Since when did Paul say goodbye? No, not even when he left, walking towards his plane yesterday, all he said was 'Love you!" smiling despite himself. No, even his calls only ended with "talk to you later" or "see you." No, Paul never said goodbye. Because I'll be back, love, won't I? That's what he said. She pushed the scheduler away to the foot of the bed, as if it was hiding a hideous creature inside it, shaking the words off her head. No, but you'll be back, love, won't you?
But there was no one around to answer her.
Yes, she always knows. She does. That's what he said.
But the cream-colored walls came into view instead, then the closet, then the vanity mirror, then their whole tidy bedroom (mostly because Paul insisted it to be that way). Still, there was no Paul. There were no faded jeans and black shirt. "Paul," she heard a whisper again, then realized that she was hearing her own voice, searching and unsure in the deafening quiet. She realized she wasn't dreaming. She was was wide awake in their bedroom that contained only her, cold and lonely that night. She realized she's been calling out to Paul so many times only to have the unmerciful silence reply. How she hated not having Paul around. It was almost like a crippling. She sat up on the bed, leaning on the pillow that was supposed to be cradling Paul's head. The lights were on- a bright contrast against how she felt. When Paul was around, the lights were always off at night. he never forgot to accomplish that chore. She looked around her, unsure of what she was looking for.
Then something caught her eye. It was Paul's scheduler, still looking new. Paul knew how to take care of his things.
(like they had life of their own, love)
Not really thinking about what she was doing, she reached out for the leather-covered notebook. There was his pen inserted inside it (how he loved his pens) and instantly, the scheduler opened where the pen was. She found herself staring at today's date, May 6. On the thin green-colored lines, her husband wrote: Goodbye, love. A shiver crawled up her spine. She closed the notebook in a snap, not wanting to see the strokes of the pen that wrote those words anymore. Since when did Paul say goodbye? No, not even when he left, walking towards his plane yesterday, all he said was 'Love you!" smiling despite himself. No, even his calls only ended with "talk to you later" or "see you." No, Paul never said goodbye. Because I'll be back, love, won't I? That's what he said. She pushed the scheduler away to the foot of the bed, as if it was hiding a hideous creature inside it, shaking the words off her head. No, but you'll be back, love, won't you?
But there was no one around to answer her.
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