R)Psychometry

The place was a mess; it had been ransacked. She knelt on the floor
in front of the coffee table, her eyes wide and brimming with tears as
she clutched several pieces of the carnage to her. The computer desk
was rifled, papers fluttered by a sweeping hand to the floor. All three
drawers had been left open at different widths, the effect that of
statement defining 'art'. A roll of sticky disk labels hung over the
rim of the top drawer cascading to the carpet like a flung rope ladder.
Letters, documents, paperclips, and packets of Swan cigarette papers
made stepping-stones across the carpet from the desk to where she
knelt.

"Rizzla's don't stick do they babe?" she muttered, remembering how he
always used to moan if she bought the wrong skins.

She needed a smoke now, how long had it been since they'd quit together
&;#8230;Six weeks? Seven? He had only lasted two days she had clung
onto her good intentions competitive to the end and too stubborn to
give in. There was no baccy in the drawers to go with the papers.

"You useless sod," she said softly "Don't you know how badly I need a
smoke? Where've you hidden your baccy tin?"

She looked around and shook her head. The desk wasn't the only area of
devastation. The unit in the corner had spewed its guts all over the
carpet, everything from books and board games to photographs and videos
littered the room.

She remembered the time the kid's were away for the weekend and he'd
got out the twister. She'd told him not to be so daft at first, but it
was hilarious playing naked twister with her husband in front of the
fire. Afterwards they sprawled on the plastic sheet and opened a bottle
of red wine.

"The Carpet!" She'd shrieked.

"Oh bugger the carpet, I'll buy you another one." She'd drunk the sharp
wine from the sweetness of his clean chest, lapped it from his belly,
tasted it on his hips."

She shook her head like a dog with grass seeds in his ears to clear the
painful memory from her mind. The Chinese rug hid the stain well; she
never did get the new carpet, his wallet snapped shut on the credit
cards as quickly as his passion cooled. That was her Steve, full of
good intentions and moving goal posts, but she loved him.

She looked again at his 'things', the frenzy had past now. She was
exhausted after running round the house grabbing shirts from the
wardrobe, boxers from his draw, his lighter, his wallet, the stuffed
dog she'd bought him for Valentines day, photographs, his beer glass, a
toy Porsche, his mobile phone, dirty sock, aftershave, his electric
razor, lucky dice, his mother's teeth; he kept them after her death, he
always joked that her gentle smile would never be far away, his mother
had been a battle axe who smiled rarely it was a standing joke between
them; and clutched in her hand squeezed so tightly that the imprint had
cut it's ring of gold into her palm she held his wedding ring.

"Talk to me baby, come on please talk to me"

Tears coursed down her cheeks.

"I didn't mean it when I said you were a dick for buying the ornamental
water feature with three tier fountain, it'll be lovely when we get a
garden."

She picked up his shaver and opened the little switch at the side that
released the head, she tapped it gently on the side of her hand and a
small amount of grey stubble fell onto her palm. She put her hands
together rubbing the ring and his facial shavings together.

"Please talk to me Steve, I'm nothing without you. Why can't I feel
your arms around me? Talk to me. Dammit you stubborn bastard I LIKE the
pond okay? Where are you? How could you leave me like that?"

She picked up his t-shirt and held it to her nose, the residual tang of
his cologne hung around the neckline. She sobbed into it oblivious to
the snot that spread its circle into the darkening black
material.

It didn't matter how many of his things she held, or how tightly she
clung onto them, nothing made Steve any less dead. Trust him to try and
argue with sixteen tons of lorry, he thought he ruled the world on that
bike. Yesterday they'd been arguing about garden ponds and Charlie
what's-her-names tits, today Just twenty-four hours later he was
dead.

She looked at his damp T-shirt.

'Born to ride'

"You daft Bastard" she said softly.