You read the note, and you flush it down the toilet. The only secret you’ll keep from her. You look at yourself in the mirror, eyes rimmed red from the salt of your tears. You stand under the shower, clothes still on and they stick to your skin. They’re heavy and they tempt you to your knees. A huddled mess under the shower. A form you’ve once been. But no longer. You’d always mean to outlive her. Grief, hurt, sorrow, you can handle, and you know she can too but – why would you put her through such pain if you could decide to shoulder the burden. You let the water wash over you, tears mixing with streams from the shower head and you’ll pretend soap got into your eyes if she asks. You promised her happy days. You let the water spray pummel away at the top of your head. You do a mental analysis of all that’s to be done. The people to call, the assets to sort; the list to share. You’ve willed them all long ago under her name. A secret nest. You play things safe. You’ll keep her safe. You let the water mix with tears and you do not cry out. You’ll miss her. You’ve failed her. You’d mean to outlive her. You’d promise her happy days and – you strip and you shower. The soap suds and bubbles, a temporary absolution. You smile at your reflection, at the tousled hair that drips a little water still and it adds, it adds a sense of disarray that accompanies that falseness of your stare. The matted hair did little to shield your red rimmed eyes from observation. The tousled might just highlight your frazzled. That’s happened. You square your shoulders. Stand tall. Be brave. You check the toilet. All clear. You get dressed as she’s making breakfast. Eggs. Scrambled. Your favourite. Not hers. You’ll fry them tomorrow. Her favourite. Your favourite, to make. You press your lips to her temple before reaching for the plates. You tell her of this funny dream you had and she laughs as you know she would. The light in her eyes. You wonder what’s swimming about in your eyes. You make a mental note to head to the shops before the end. A well-stocked pantry, speaks of care. She might be too aggrieved to do shopping. Maybe she wouldn’t care. You smile a small smile. She makes you write shopping lists, or to follow hers to a tee. No grocery shopping on a whim. You always buy me what I need, and near all I want honey. Less can be more. She’ll say as she checks the receipts to make sure you won’t go about hiding candy about the house.

You like it when she finds a chocolate kiss in places she wouldn’t imagine or expect; under the cup, by her alarm clock on Monday and sometimes Thursday mornings, resting on the toothpaste and, admittedly a mistake: that one time she found a melted one hidden in the oven. She didn’t quite like that one, and cleaning it out wasn’t all that much fun but she really really likes chocolates and, she leaves her own made up jokes in little floral strips in your shoes and sometimes, tucked in the folds of your handkerchiefs. Happiness to her is conditional, and love to her, comes too with clauses, she feels. That there’s a reason and purpose to all actions and acts, that nothing is ever simply so. You love her. You watch her humming as she slices the tomatoes. Her wearing her hair down. That’s how your breath first got taken away. Her, with her normally bound hair, stood at the front of her door with it down. In a simple tee shirt and shorts, and still looking a vision. Your heart got caught and your words were lost in place of a smile.

She sets the plates down, and you pour water into her glass. She smiles and you wonder if the flicker of sadness in her eyes is a perception of yours, flawed.