He reached as he woke, as he always did as he woke, as he still did as he woke. Cold pillow. Half asleep, vulnerable, he drew in a breath on a gasp. Must drag myself into the shower, he thought. He did. He didn’t accidentally grab her girlie shampoo anymore. Wrapped in his towel, he opened the closet. Now her things were gone, he spread his own on the rod. It looked a paltry collection of suits and dress shirts. He chose and dressed. He chose a likely tie. He fiddled with it dumbly as he went downstairs. Leaving it untied, he grabbed a mug and turned to the counter. He choked on a sob. Was there anything sadder than an unmade pot of coffee?
© 2011 JC Rosen
The last line was the prompt by @toasted_cheese on Twitter.