Word Count: 373
She felt so alone. That deep black widow alone. It was just starting to hit her, the loss.
They said it was common. To see him around corners, to feel him still in their bed. She tried to embrace it and yet it still scared her, still smashed into her belly with grief over and new again.
In the evenings she’d think he was out there, a glimpse through the trees hovering the edges of their backyard. The first time it was so real she dropped a plate into the sink, cutting her fingers on the sharp broken edge as reality sought to grasp it.
Her friends told her everything they could think of to help her adjust. Time, they said, it would take time. But the shadows she saw–thought she saw–became common.
One time she even went out to call him. His name thin and light on the wind. She felt like a fool; he would’ve answered. If he were real. And the pain of the loss slapped like a hand once again.
Go see someone, they suggested. Not knowing what else to say. A grief counselor, that’s what they’re for. They’ll help you through it, they said. What they thought and left unspoken was that it had been too long, almost a year. She should have adapted by now.
When do you see him? the counselor asked. When’s the most frequent time?
In the night, she explained. Outside the windows.
And he talked her through it, the way the mind can play tricks, the need to hold on.
It took a few months. Of changing routines. Of drawing the drapes. Of not looking out as she washed the lone plate, the single fork with its mate of a knife. If she didn’t look out the windows, avoided the night that held him, he said eventually she would be fine. Move on with her life. Savor the memories for that’s all that it was.
And it worked. She did believe it was under control, what she thought she had seen was all in her mind. But the man who was watching was waiting for this, sighed with relief, grinned in the dark. For the man who was watching was real.
