House warming.

A new house, a new job and a new city. This is all you wanted, to leave the trainwreck behind. The walls are painted in blue, your favourite colour and it couldnt get any better. You take out your newly purchased coffee machine. You bought it this morning,finally. Your new fascination point it will be. You waste over 10 minutes with the bubblewrap thinking, it's probably a sign, to let the child in you finally come to life. Dancing your way to the new yellow tiled kitchen, you plug in the toaster, the microwave and the fridge. Taking little steps, alone this time. Probably for the best, your thought once again.

mmm nothing like freshly made coffee. You devour the bitter aftertaste, similar to the one that she left in your mouth. Not her, not again. You look at the dull boxes that have positioned themselves all over the new house.Counting them would be a good idea and so you go on 1,2,3 .. and you wonder how they fit your world in just 9 boxes. 9, that's the last digit of her phone number. No, stop. The sun is too harsh in this town and you definitely need curtains. Unlike your old hell where you never really thought of windows until she discovered one lucky window to let out the smoke. It suffocated her she claimed, why wasn't she dead already. You wanted her to die, a slow painful death and hear her scream out your name. Only yours, not his, nobody else'. Then you'd be the hero again, the one who saved her. She always needed saving, I'd like to have a pizza, the bag is too heavy, the zipper is a scum, the world is a scam, this house is a living hell, these pants just dont look right, I hate my hair, I'm too depressed:look at me!, my world is full of nothing but problems. Your  little victory jar that kept filling with each time you made it okay only to make her say what would she possibly do without you. Then the jar got too heavy, the perfect words got too difficult to fetch and the nails she dug into your heart got too painful to endure. I hate her.

Box number 1, tagged as clothes but opens up with books. Always messing the tags, I shouldn't have tipped them so well. The imbecile never understood your love for books, said you're on a flight that is too far from reality. Like she'd know, the alcoholic is going to tell you what's real. 

Box number 2. Cushions. A box full of cushions, when the hell did that happen? Oh her backaches. Annoying little screeches coupled with 'my back is dead today, pass over some cushions will you?' Buying cushions made that weirdo so happy and now you have a box full of oddly shaped, too rested cushions. 

Box number3. Clothes. Probably the lightest box around. Her rights and wrongs on clothing never really let you buy much clothes. Whatever that there was, half was hers already. You wonder if she'd be wearing the shirt which she shamelessly claimed as her own one night. The colour looked good on her, her skin tone really brought out the purple she said. Even though you scoffed each time she said that, you knew it did. You look for her smell, if it's still there on your clothes. Obsessed with smelling good, that should go on her gravestone. Berries, fresh flowers and the salty musky scent of her skin. It drove you crazy. Each time she'd spray it on you'd leave the house 5 minutes too late. Fill your head with her scent and a smile would be plastered on your face the entire day. Enough. 

Box number 4. Utensils. There were knives, little glass jars, pans,pots. Too much equipment you'd gladly murder him or her with. 

Box number 5. Shoes. You neatly stack them, your lovelies she called them. How can you love shoes so much? What you couldnt explain to her was the rush. The rush each new pair gave you. Twenty browns, ten blacks and numerous running shoes. The twitchy feeling in your toes when you'd walk in a new pair. Like a troubled kid, they would get tamed with time. You like fixing things. Always been your favourite right? What were these pink duck print socks doing in your favourite running shoes?

You're getting warm, the sinking feeling is getting too much. You need fresh air, at the wine shop is where you find it. Two bottles. Number one is half dead already. Taking a large sip, you sit down near box number 6.

6. Has frames, the drill box and other hardware equipment. You look around and make a mental picture of which frame goes where. The frame with your family picture in it needs some gluing. She dropped it one day and placed it exactly where it was. Not a glimpse of apology or guilt in those eyes. Maybe she still believes your never watched this little show of hers.

Box seven. Miscellaneous. Books, some cutlery, two t shirts, stationery,  an envelope. The envelope. Full of the little things she wrote to you. 'Will be late' post its, your birthday poem, I love you's in her annoying handwriting, the unfinished short stories which were more often put to a halt by your carnal wants. Something about watching her write was always irresistible. Sitting with her legs cross folded on your bed, hair tied in a loose bun, her eyes concentrating too hard, the faint smile on her lips, her slender fingers moving in a rhythm- how could you not love this sight.

Box number 8. Black plastic liner wrapping the bedding. This wont do, it's for two. Maybe you'll throw this one and buy a new one suitable for the single bed.

Number 9. Empty. Filled with the obvious.

You had whiskey for lunch and dinner. Amusing.
Walking into the kitchen, you pick up the new coffee maker and with shaky hands, place it in box number nine.