#26

he'd never been there before. this city was so big, you could go out every day and never run in to the same people. of course, he didn't know that. it was a rare occasion for him to step foot outside. after she died it just wasn't worth it.

two days after the funeral, he moved away, silently, without fanfare. how could he stay? the whole town was gray and lifeless. everywhere he walked, it was memories of her, the way she covered her eyes to squint down the road. how she hummed down alleyways half to hear the echo and half because she was always nervous in alleyways.

so he moved, and here he was, and he couldn't stand to leave his 10th floor apartment. what was the point? she had never seen this place, it did not carry her joy, her laughter never rang off the windows, they had never seen that green skirt brush the soft backs of her knees.

but today he was out. just for today he was charming and chatty, making shopkeepers laugh, passing news about the weather while standing in line.
he bought grapes, her favorite, and a mango. he window shopped until he grew tired, and the sun retired behind the buildings. he returned to his apartment. for a week this time, maybe a month.

not usually, but sometimes, it was fun to pretend that he was alive; that she was alive.