You finished work for the day and you called her. She picked up, like she always does, with a smile on her face. Even if you can’t see it, you hear it in her voice. She said it’s fine to come over, she was just making pasta, would you mind grabbing some wine?

I’m forgetting you. I don’t want to but memory has its own way of doing things. It pushes something back until it forgets it’s there. Like when you push your favourite shirt to the bottom of the drawer only to find it on a random day when you decide to clean your closet.

You opened the door and already from where you were standing you could see the table. The cups you had tea from before you left, the open packet of biscuits, the half eaten chocolate. All lying exactly where you last left them. She asked you to clean before sleep and you said you’ll do it. Eventually.