It’s 8am and she’s gone, the space beside me is warm and I can still feel her presence.
Its as if the mattress is holding a memory of her shape. But its memory is not as vivid or detailed as mine.
I slowly waken from the foggy haze of last nights dancing and romancing. We were still awake at 4 cuddling together, our limbs entwined as we drifted off to peaceful sleep.
Theres a slight feeling of anxiety building as i don’t remember her saying that she was leaving. There were no definite plans for her to stay, it had been unspoken. We would go on our walk, I’d make dinner, we’d head into town and let the rest take care of itself.
Now I’m listening in the half light, hoping that she’s in the loo or making tea and toast. That would be perfect.
I’m hoping to hear the click of the kettle or the ring of a teaspoon in a mug but it doesn’t happen.
The only sounds are the birds and the traffic.
I pick my phone up to check and there are no messages. No late night or early morning texts to let me know she’s home safe.
Thinking that I best get up and check. I pull myself up, slowly, stretch out my limbs as I rise and pull on my discarded boxers.
My eyes struggle in the darkness as I pad down the stairs. But even in this light I notice with a twinge of disappointment that the only coat that remains where we’d left them hanging over the bannister is my own.
I’m already accepting she’s gone and wondering why as I get to the kitchen and turn on the lights.
First things first, kettle on, a glass of fresh orange from the fridge , there’s a notepad there but she hasn’t left a message.
I’m still a bit hazy, looking for signs, but there’s not a trace and no note of any kind.
It’s as if she’d never been here.
Except the memories are too vivid not to be real and I smile at the memory of yesterday’s first kiss and the passion that followed.
I have a look round the house, nothing’s changed, nothing’s left but a memory and the hope that last night was not our last.
Wandering back upstairs, i turn on the tv and get into bed. I pick up my iPad to check my mail. I tell myself that it’s a bit desperate, verging on pathetic, but I can’t help it
Nothing. Not a thing.
Well nothing that matters. Just spam and the usual guff telling me that my virginmedia bill is available online. Who cares!
I relax, sip my tea and think of sending her a text, composing it in my head. Keep it light, nothing heavy, tell her how much I enjoyed the night before and how much I want to do it again.
As I reach for the phone, it pings as a message comes in, the banner at the top says its from her……
This is the fourth chapter of my fictional dating story, for part 1 click below