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She Wiped the Mirror Clean


            She got out of the shower and wiped the mirror clean. It seemed no matter how often she cleaned it, she could not fully remove the traces of his former messages, as she could not fully remove the idea of him from her mind.

            She used to love the little messages he scribbled with his finger in the steamy bathroom mirror  for her while she was in the shower: 

        I love you, sweetheart 
                                                           You’re my sexy woman  
                                                                                                    Can’t wait to see you naked again

And things much more profane.

            Often, she heard the squeak of his finger against the glass, and she had to summon all her will-power not to peek out the shower door to see what it said—the anticipation of seeing the message almost as exciting as seeing him standing there naked himself. Other times, he managed to be quiet, surprising her with a sweet 
                                                                You make my heart flutter

            She could still smell him in their bed. She tried buying fresh sheets, but the mattress fabric was woven with his aroma—maybe even stuffed with his essence. She repeatedly visited mattress websites—The Futon Shop, Saatva, that purple one with the egg—spending hours perusing mattresses, picking one, putting it in her shopping cart, only to close her laptop and walk away, unable to fully exorcise him from her bed.

            She wanted to wipe him clean out of her life. Or did she? She seemed unable to accept his absence, but equally incapable of embracing his unending presence.

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