On Monday Margot was gone before I woke up. Routine didn't stop me from feeling abandoned. I rolled off the bed, her spot already cold, and went to start the day.
My cupboards were bare from the weekend, but I had no desire to refill them. Instead I made the last price of toast in my state of the art electric refrigerator, a gift from Carlo for staying out so late to help out, and ate in silence.
I didn't need to be to the bar until the afternoon, so I lounged about the apartment, not even bothering to dress my wounds from the weekend. Let them get infected. Let them scar and metastasize and spread until I am no longer alone with myself. I curled on the couch in my spiraling, only catching a glimpse of the instrument hidden just beyond the doorframe.
Even from the distance I could hear it, singing alone and daring me to play. Begging me for that release and satisfaction.
