It felt good to clean. I bought flowers, tidied up the back garden – picked up the crisp packets that blow in, cut the edges of the grass. Swept the patio. We might sit out in the morning for breakfast. I tidied the lounge, the bedroom, changed the sheets and put on the soft cotton ones I’d bought a month ago, vacuumed. The windows were open. I smelled flowers, the exhaust of a car going past, heard voices floating on the warm air.
When I was tired and empty, beginning to be hungry, I texted Damian to ask if he wanted to come over. I said I had the house to myself. I put a kiss on the end. I carried on, waiting, doing things. I hung out the sheets. The back door was open. The sheets were bigger than me. I liked stretching to straighten them on the line. I’d hear my phone when the reply came. The same noises from outside and, when I went in, the hum of the fridge. In the apple tree a blackbird, making its call that sounded like water, a song sung through liquid.
I took a shower, put on my new dress and perfume, went out to get bread, eggs, bacon, and orange juice. Walked slowly back from the shop, not looking at my phone. Unpacked things, put away the bag, threw the receipt into the empty lined bin. The kitchen smelled of kitchen cleaner. The floors smelled of floor cleaner. The cars carried on passing. In the afternoon it got greyer, a bit colder. I left the windows open. There was no reply, no reply at all.