He was afraid to leave her alone.
As Anita lay on what had once been their bed, Dominic sat in an uncomfortable folding chair beside her, slightly disturbed by the lack of things he used to take for granted–the expected rise and fall of her stomach that accompanied inhalation and exhalation, the fluttering beneath her closed eyelids when she used to dream, and a million other tiny indications that even though she was asleep, she would eventually wake up.
She was posed in almost the exact fashion as she had been the previous Saturday. Streams of reddish-brown hair flowed from her head, down alongside her shoulders and onto the comforter. Her arms were placed across her chest, one hand overlapping the other. Though the undertakers had tried their best, they were unable to adjust the restless look on her face. Anita appeared in death almost every way as she had for the twenty-six years of her life.
Dominic leaned over and pressed his cheek to hers. There wasn’t much of a scent, but traces of something sulfurous lingered. The questions came rapid-fire to his mind, but he was afraid to ponder any of them too long.
Am I dreaming?
Will you ever talk to me?
Will you leave again?
If you’d like to finish reading this story, along with many others, I’d be ecstatic if you’d consider purchasing one of my books.