Now she’s gone :: SOTD

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Keep Art Alive :: Art by Marco Zamudio

With lips full of passion, 
and coffee in bed.”

Will sits in a darkened apartment, his darkened apartment now. He has been sitting in the corner by the window, his legs tucked up underneath him, in the world’s most uncomfortable chair. That’s what they had deemed it once they had it inside. Will had spied it at the under the bridge flea market, it matched her shade of lipstick, so he’d bought it on the spot, dragging it up the five flights of narrow stairs to their place. Elle had loved it with exuberance, the way she loved everything, at first, that is until she sat in it.

Congratulations Will, you bought us the world’s most uncomfortable chair.” Elle announced, her words that unique mix of cutting sarcasm and warmth that only she could conjure up.

It reminded me of you.” Will had replied, the words an instant regret as it was so not what he had meant at all.

Thinking back on it, though, perhaps he should have meant it that way. Elle certainly made this place the most uncomfortable home in all of Portland, and his life, well it was miles above uncomfortable, looking down at it with envy. Elle had left him an empty shell of himself lost in the haze of nothingness. Oh, and she had left the uncomfortable chair, and a broken coffee pot.

Will has taken to sleeping in the living room. He found a couch to drag home from that flea market, uncomfortable, too, but not to the world’s worst standard. He just can’t bear to go into their room, not now, not yet. He closes his eyes and thinks about trying, but all he sees is the outline of Elle’s body under a tangled duvet, her glasses on the coffee stained nightstand, and a gaggle of mismatched shoes around the foot of the bed. He swears he can still smell her perfume wafting from the room, even with the door shut tightly, as if it could seep under the crack between hard wood and door, choking him in too many memories like some kind of poison fog.

For now he’ll just stay in this room, in the world’s most uncomfortable chair, waiting to forget what she liked in her coffee, how her hair felt like brushed across his skin, and what she looked like driving away without him.

Black Coffee in Bed :: Squeeze

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