~MeL~
I kept thinking I’d sense him there, like a phantom brush of warmth in the kitchen or the faint scent of leather lingering in the hall, but he wasn’t. And maybe that was better. Maybe that space, that absence, was necessary to keep my head from spinning.
Focusing on the mundane task of grinding beans, scooping grounds, I placed the grounds in the coffee pot’s basket, inhaling deeply as the freshly brewing aroma filled the apartment, comforting, familiar. Still, every few seconds I swore I could smell him…a trace of sawdust, leather and sun-warmed skin…like he’d left pieces of himself behind and they refused to fade.
After pouring myself a cup of coffee, I let the bitter warmth settle in my chest as I tried to work. The manuscript sat open, mocking me. Words came in hesitant drips
