The laundry piles haphazardly in the untouched bedroom.
Cotton shirts, wrinkled dress pants, underwear; none have endured the onslaught of the washing machine in weeks.
My novels - treasured, crumpled, weathered paperbacks of murderers, sorcery & lost love - lie dormant.
His face, aged and unshaven, lacks the lustre that quickened my heartbeat when I began to realise that I loved him.
He doesn't get around to frivolous cleaning or grooming, his soul much too preoccupied.
YOU ARE READING
When He Stopped Listening
Short StoryWinner of the 2016 Anti-Watty Awards. his eyes glazed his tea grew cold his calloused hands trembled he gradually stopped listening to me he never came back
