The Sweatshirt

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
A woman faces being alone after her husband's funeral.

Submitted: October 23, 2013

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Submitted: October 23, 2013

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She walks into the dark, hollow apartment. She doesn’t even bother turning on the lights because no one is home, not even her. She lazily tosses her keys at the wall. They miss their hook and tumble to the floor. Clink. She abandons them there.

During the past few blurred days surrounded by friends and family, she only wanted for some time alone. Now as she stands in the living room, the silence paralyzes her. The sealed curtains impede the fresh, outside air as well as the soft rays of twilight stifling her air supply.

Her crocheted dress smothers her digging into my pale skin. She wrangles it off leaving it on the floor in the middle of the living room. She kicks out my pumps one by one launching them under the couch.

She falls into his leather chair shivering. Her black silk slip gives her no warmth, but the cold in her bones doesn’t come from the air. She hugs her knees to her chest and struggle for breathe.

She blindly stumbles through the living room into the bedroom. With her hands as her guide, she finds the dresser. She rummages through the drawers, the ones with all his things. Things he will never wear again. Things she will have to pack up and give away but not yet. Not yet!

She finally finds what will cure her chill, his old college sweatshirt with the bold letters across the chest. She throws it over my head and catches a whiff of him. Not his cologne but him. The real him, the him he was.

The weathered plush of the sweatshirt hangs on her malnourished body. It’s amazing what three days of not eating can do to her petit figure. But who really thinks about eating when the world is crashing down all around?

With the neck still over her nose, she wraps her arms around herself hoping to feel his embrace one more time. Her legs tremble, and the tears that she’s been holding back finally come.

She crawls into his spot on the bed. She pulls the sweatshirt down and buries her face into her pillow. Her long blond hair drapes over the edge of the bed. Her tears meld with his scent as the memories flood back.

The day they met he was wearing this sweatshirt, already proud of his soon-to-be alma mater. She didn’t want anything to do with him then. She was a lost freshman wondering from building to building without a clue of where she was going while he was the clichéd “big man on campus” with his rowing and fraternity. He invited her to parties and his meets trying to impress her with his snobbery, not knowing she was a scholarship student. She always rejected him making him want her that much more.

In the end, he wore her down with his charm and that devilish smile of his. The same smile that would brighten up her worst days for many years after until that fateful rainy night with that horrible telephone call from police. Now all she had left was the memories and his lingering smell, the smell that consumes her.

She closes her whimpering eyes and breathes in the last traces of the man she loved.


© Copyright 2018 Ash Dugas. All rights reserved.

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