I walked into the bedroom. My side of the bed was neat. His side was a tangle of blankets balled up, pillow knocked sideways.
The closet door hung open. He'd torn through it looking for clothes that morning, and my T-shirts had been shoved to one side, wrinkled into a ball.
I stood in the middle of the bedroom, dripping water onto the floor.
Then I walked to the closet, pulled open his side, and started yanking his clothes out one by one. Throwing them on the ground.
Dress shirts. T-shirts. Hoodies. Jeans. The coat I'd bought him. The scarf I'd knitted. Two months I'd spent on that scarf, pricked my fingers more times than I could count. He never wore it. Not once. Said it was ugly.
All of it, on the floor.
Then I crouched down, picked up the coat, and held it against my chest.
It still smelled like him. Aftershave. Cigarettes. A faint trace of liquor.
I buried my face in it and breathed in deep.
Then I let go and threw it back on the pile.
I stood up, walked into the bathroom, and turned on the shower.
Hot water poured over me, and my body finally stopped shaking. I stood under the stream with my eyes closed, mind blank. Not thinking about anything.