I decide to do a load of laundry. It’s the ordinary kind—work clothes, towels, the sweater I keep forgetting to hang properly. I’m already sorting when I see it.
That fucking handkerchief. The one I thought was sooo special.
For a second, I consider pulling it out.
Then I don’t.
I drop it in with the colors and turn the dial without ceremony.
I know exactly what I’m doing.
I make tea and wait for my wash machine to do its job.
Not the rushed kind.
Not the kind you drink standing up.
I fill the kettle and set it on the stove. The sound of the water is too loud in the stillness. I lean against the counter while it heats, arms loosely folded around myself.
While I wait, my mind does what it’s been circling since last night.
Not Chuck.
Not the words he said.
The timing.
Sunday night.
Tuesday night.
The space between them.
Derek pulled back emotionally—controlled, deliberate, convincing himself it was restraint. Then he was intimate with me two nights later.
Not impulsively.
Not carelessly.
Intentionally.
He came into my space. My quiet street. He let me believe the attention meant something because it was careful, because it was chosen, because it didn’t feel interchangeable.
He let me take him home.
All while Sunday sat there, unspoken.
Not forgotten.
Dismissed.
The kettle whistles—sharp, insistent. I pour the water slowly over the tea leaves, watching the color bloom outward. Pale at first, then deepening into something familiar. Steam curls up, fogging my glasses for a moment.
I inhale.
Bergamot. Citrus. Warmth without sweetness.
I carry the mug to the small table by the window and sit.
