Inspired by He’s My Man by Luvcat.

I.

I practice my smile in the mirror when he goes to work. I open the bathroom door, take up the threshold, and let the grin carve my face like a steak knife. It is even better when I pull at the creases of my mouth, pushing the manicure deep into my cheeks, smoothing the taut skin. The light above the mirror is sickly. It illuminates my face in this pallid glow. I look haunting, washed over in this strange tinge that pronounces the bags under my eyes. 

The mirror image is picture perfect. 

II.

Clouds hang over the apartment, filling the air with this cloying heat. I lie on the bare mattress, staring up as the fan thrums, the cord swinging. I am stuck in this trance, hypnotised by the spinning. The film on the mattress sticks to me. Across the ceiling, mould is beginning to bloom again. Once, I traced a pencil around the spores, graphite feebly containing the spread. He said he would treat it, but the bubbling paint cannot prevent me from lifting my arm. I lazily sketch the dark shapes, the ceiling serving as my warped canvas. 

Flies knock against the windows.

III. 

I have set the table for tea. Our saucers are chipped, but this ritual is necessary. The clock on the mantelpiece jammed years ago. Still, I know he is late. The light is dimming, casting longer shadows across the sitting room. Steam rises from the cups, but soon they will cool. It has already been poured. He will fail to notice the change in the tea, grimacing only when he reaches the violet dregs. 

Our future is secured when he clutches his chest.

IV. 

The flies have joined me inside. They bash against the windows, the lights, the floor. I will never inhabit these four walls alone.