This story has been set to a rating of G. Age verification is required to proceed.
I get up and open the doors of the wardrobe. Her side is empty for months already. Mine too. Most of my things are packed in boxes and will be shipped soon. With a thud one door closes, the other one hampers as it has been doing for a long time. One kick of my heel and it closes too.
Quickly I check the time and I’m not sure whether it goes too fast or too slow. Then I take off the suit that I wore on my last day at the gallery and step under the rain shower. Leaning my back against the cold tiles I let the water cascade down on me, my eyes tightly shut. The slow, rhythmic thumb of my heartbeat in my ears. I’m exhausted. Blindly I grope for the alcove shelf and take the first bottle I can find. When the shower gel is already abundantly foaming in between my hands I realize that I took hers. The flowery smell mingles with the steam in the cabin and a sob fights its way pass the lump in my throat and echoes against the bathroom tiles. Quickly I soap myself and wash it off even faster. Lightheaded I step out of the cabin and let the fluffy towel absorb the waterdrops, while I rest my hands on the bathroom sink. I always loved our evening ritual. She would playfully look at me through the mirror, while brushing our teeth. I would watch her apply her night cream, while I would lubricate my hands with hand cream. And always she would ruffle my hair after I would be done brushing it. Well…until we stopped going to bed at the same time. I exchange the towel for the clothes I will travel in, black turtleneck and matching black pants, autumn in Paris can be really cold.
Her voice on the phone… it had been such a long time. Endless. Lonely, dark nights that never seemed to end, every day a cruel reminder that she’s gone without any intention to come back. I can’t really blame her. I wish I could. That gentle and warm voice, distant and cautious, when she carefully told me that the woman that I love as a mother… she’s dying.