She might not be there, but it is still the anniversary of the day we did get married. But of course, it's not the same because there is no one to share with.Anyway, when I finally returned to Warwick. Our home is dark and cold and so silent. I go in, drop my bag and sit. In the dark. Listening. Hoping I might hear her. But of course, there's nothing. Well, how could there be? There's just the buzz of the fridge motor and the central heating pipes clicking as they warmed up.So I have a whiskey and go to bed. The bed. Our bed. It's cold now. I have to put Jenny's pillows down the middle to keep the warmth on my side but in the morning, I find a message from Cathy and George Corbyn inviting me round on Saturday evening.Now that really is thoughtful, because Saturdays are the worst evenings when you are alone. It shows understanding. Empathy. On Friday you can think about going to the supermarket and doing the washing. On Sunday you can think about going to work on Monday but on. I smelled like B.O. and Old Spice deodorant I had stolen from my asshole brother to spite him for taking the car when it was obviously my turn to have it. It was pretty typical of him to do shit like that. He was probably at a diner with his friends eating grilled cheese and drinking chocolate milkshakes with whole milk whipped cream even though he has a lactose intolerance. That’s the kind of dickhole he was. He didn’t even take care of his own body.I walked for about 20 minutes. The sun beat down on me. I wished I had a hat or sunglasses. I could barely see. The sweat poured off of me. I had a headache. The eczema on my back burned and I tried my hardest not to itch it. I opened my pack of fruit snacks to have a little treat but they had gotten all melty and I hated when they did that so I cursed (“Fuckin shit fuck”) and threw them on the ground. Some rabbit could eat them later and get all hyper from the processed sugar. I wished I had brought water. My mouth was so dry. Sometimes.
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