writing prompt: the empty glass (bis)

There. It was over. She shut the door behind her, leaving the world outside to fend for itself while she took a minute to breathe. Ever since the accident, she’d been running herself ragged, trying to hold the family together and consoling distant relatives who suddenly felt afflicted by the loss of a man who, just a few weeks ago, was barely worthy of receiving their Xmas family newsletter. Her head swam. She leaned her forehead against the cool door and pulled off the multicolored scarf he’d given her. Her coat was too dark, too dreary, too corporate for who she was, he’d said; he’d given her a toque, scarf and mittens set that he thought better reflected the woman he’d fallen in love with. She’d initially balked at the mittens, that is, until retaliation called for a well-packed and expertly-thrown snowball; that had finally convinced her, and she’d worn them ever since.

She kicked off her boots like a cranky child: her swollen belly drastically affected her mobility, and she preferred a messy foyer to walking to the sofa and having to mop up the slushy puddles she would invariably trail in. Tonight, especially tonight, everything could wait. The only one who’d mattered was gone. She dimmed the lights and waddled to what was now her bedroom. She reached for the doorknob and paused for an instant as yet another memory of a now-distant past flashed across her mind. She pushed open the door and absently flicked on the lights.

On his night stand, or rather, on the night stand that stood on what had once been his side of the bed, a water glass glimmered in the soft light. She sighed. How often they’d had hat particular debate. When they’d first met, she’d boldly declared that she could never date a “glass is half-empty” kind of guy for very long, that it could never last. Yet it was that exact complementarity that brought them together, hr cheery outlook brightening his biting cynicism. Sometimes, they’d continue to argue until one of them drifted off to sleep; “it’s half-full,” she’d whisper dreamily. On their last night together, she’d let him win – the glass was half-empty.

She sat on the edge of the bed and stared hard at the night stand, blinking rapidly. He had set his lips to that glass. She leaned over and picked it up, bringing it close to her as though cradling a steaming mug of hot cocoa on a frigid morning. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, willing herself to pick up the lingering scent of his cologne that still clung to everything he’d touched. With reverence, she brought the glass to her lips; it trembled in her unsteady grasp as she lifted it. Slowly, she let the still water wash over her tongue and down her throat. She pulled the glass away and held it at arm’s length. This time, the glass was completely empty, and it would never be full again. At this realization, she hurled it against the wall and watched it splinter into thousands of shards that rained onto the carpet. She flung herself back across the bed and wailed.

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