That kind of nervousness she could stomach. Its source was known but remained surrounded by uncertainty, possibility. Untouched, shiny-new. It was exciting.
This nervousness bothered her.
She got dressed and traipsed into the kitchen.
She couldn’t get her head around it. She didn’t understand it and all the same sometimes it managed to surround her completely, drag her in. It was like being underwater and swimming up to the surface but never quite reaching it.
She put the coffee on the stove and cracked two eggs into a bowl. Scrambled them and served them on top of a thick slice of toast, hot and buttery.
When she was finished she sat at the kitchen table for a while, twiddling an acorn she’d picked up the day before round in circles. She liked the way it felt between her fingers, smooth and perfect, so much held in something so tiny.
She considered staying home, but the only thing worse than going outside would be staying inside. There, alone, with it gnawing at her stomach. Drumming inside her head. Twitching in her lungs. And so she stepped out of the front door, once again. A deep breath and off she went, the outside world none the wiser of the restless beast that lay waiting behind the front door of her flat.
When she got home she kicked off her shoes and walked to the kitchen. Her tights got caught on a nail that was just sticking out floorboard. She put the kettle on.
It had taken her a long time to realise that letting him in was not an act of weakness. Allowing him to lift her up sometimes didn’t dampen the fire that burnt in her belly. Maybe she didn’t need anyone, but having someone could be nice too.
And now he wasn’t there.
BACKGROUND IMAGE SOURCE: CAROL VANHOOK/FLICKR; NICK LEE/FLICKR