The house was quiet.

Very quiet.

A muteness that occupied space and time and invade her senses recently awoken. Yet, the thoughts, there, in turmoil bombing her peaceful morning.

Yes…it feels like that…

She could only thing about the desolation of war. A bombard. First t the surprise and panic. Then the noise of absolute indefectible silence.

However, she was not at war. She was at her house. At the comfort of her bed and there was no eminent possibility of a missile attack.

Only, the palpable sound of silence.

If the brunette really concentrated, she could hear voices, the neighbors reform, the sound of the motor of a car.

Far.

Distant.

But, that, if the mocha skinned woman was really interested in paying attention.

But she wasn’t and she ignored it.

All the curled haired woman could reach was yet, silence. And it hammered the brunette’s head and annoyed her ears.

Quietude.

Because, they weren’t there anymore. And with them leaved all the sounds.

Giggling, laughs and cries. The noun mother flying in the space, enchantments, dialogues. Movements of a child.

Yes, she missed her daughter.

However, this Sunday morning, still in bed, eyes closed, lingering from the night she had slept, she missed her.

She missed Tina.

And there was she: surrounded by memories, yet, silent emptiness. No sounds. Of any kind.

No more plates, kettle, cutlery, cups. The objects: taken and devolved to the cupboard or shocked against each other. Because that’s the way she is. She was so careful with everything that surrounded the brunette, but she was kind of messy around the kitchen.

And after that morning movements, came the smell. The smell of recently made coffee. Toasts, milk, her voice murmuring something.

It took Bette time to understand that those were sounds of life and fragrances that perfumed her days.

And there was also the steps, coming in and going out.

There was the family lunch. It always seamed to Bette that her lover exceeded all the movements when she was in the kitchen. And all those tiny actions had her name. The wine being opened. The experience with new recipes. The smell of pot and the voice inside old songs they’ve heard together so many times, but also songs that, even living with the blonde for eleven years, the curled haired woman never heard before.