waking up for the last time

Tch, put on some clothes, slob.

Ha, why would I? Not going anywhere...

Exactly, you aren't going anywhere. No job, no prospects, no friends, no nothing. Put on your fucking clothes and clean up your mess.

Nothing's clean.

Then do the fucking laundry!

He sighed. He didn't need to yell. He hated yelling. It just happened. Sometimes he wanted to wring her neck, punch the wall, anything to make her move, to make her like she used to be. But she didn't move, or change. She lay there naked, never wanting to be dressed or combed or painted up like the other women. She lay there naked, and he could never tell her no. Or do anything more than shake his head and go about the day.

No one called on her anymore. The novelty of the nudism had worn off ages ago; now she was just eccentric. Eccentric and naked. The bare wonder, no paint to beautify the skin, not even a little glitter. Even the men wore paint, these days. She gazed over at the mirror situated across from her divan, admired her bare skin. There were uneven places, one patch darker than another, sometimes dry skin. She dipped her finger into a pot of oil and rubbed it into the dry spot until it shone, and eventually disappeared. Maybe one day she'd dress again, venture under the sun. But she didn't think she'd ever paint again; no, no more of that business. Let the masks be ones of the mind, rather than of the flesh. He came back, shortly, to check on her. She loved him for it.

What have you been doing?

Oh you know, contemplating. I did the dishes and put them away, what do you think of that?

It's something. He sighed.

I know darling, I know. She wondered when he was going to leave her. Any day now, maybe.

.....

The note read, "For the last time, I'm waking up next to you."

She laid there, naked.

indie ink juillet 4-8

challenger