Denial
I’m waiting for you to come home.
I’ve been waiting for a week.
I am upstairs when I hear someone
in the kitchen and almost fall in
my haste to confirm you are here.
But I find only your dirty plate and
the dregs of your coffee. I pick up
your mug and cradle it in my hands,
touching my lips to where yours were.
I jump as the phone screams for
attention. My heart races and my
hands shake. I run to the hallway and
pick up the phone. It could be you.
‘Hello.’
‘Mrs Jackson?’
‘Yes.’ I slip down the wall onto the
beige carpet you were so sure was the
best colour for our hallway, although
I thought it was insipid. My fingers
explore the roughness of the natural
fibres, reminding me of the rare
moments your face was covered in
stubble. The voice in my ear falters at
my lack of response.
‘Mrs Jackson? Are you there?’
‘Yes.’ I whisper.
‘Are you alright?’
‘I don’t know.’ I brush away useless
tears. ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry.’
‘No need to be sorry Mrs Jackson.
It’s understandable. But may I ring
back later? Or could you come here?
There are decisions to be made.’
‘Yes.’ I put the phone down.rises into my throat. I am not going
to be sick.
I grab your trousers, tearing them
from their hangers, scrunching them
into tight balls and I throw them
across the room. The creases are in
the wrong place now. How angry you
would be.
Is that a small smile tugging my face?
I pull your jumpers and T-shirts
from their tidy shelves, throw them
on the floor and stomp them into a
mountain of grey and black. What
dull colours you wore. They’d suit
you now.
My knees buckle and my hands
become fists. I pummel your clothes.
You are not coming back. My tears
scold my cheeks.
I use the bed we shared to pull
myself up. The room is a mess, but I
don’t care.
You are not coming home.
I sleep on the sofa.Bargaining
A thump awakens me. More envelopes
piling inside the door. I don’t want to
open them. I don’t want to read words
of sympathy. I go upstairs.
‘I’m sorry.’ I stare at the bedroom
floor, gathering your clothes in my arms
and sorting them into piles on the bed.
‘I’ll put them back, just how you
like.’ I handle them gently, cradling5454 NOVEMBER 2019 http://www.writers-online.co.ukWithout You
Jenni Clarke was born in the
UK but now lives in a quiet
corner of France where she
writes whenever life gives
her the time and space. Her
non-fiction writing has been
published over the last twelve
years, and she has recently
published her first fiction book
of short stories. This is her first
competition win after being a
runner-up several times.WITHOUT
COMPETITION
1st place
£10 0
by Jenni Clarke
Later. Another day. Not now, not
yet. You will come home soon and tell
me it was all a mistake.
I stare at the phone. Why don’t you
call and tell me you’re coming home?
My mobile buzzes on the kitchen
table. It’s not your ringtone.
‘Go away.’ I shout to no-one.
My mobile chirps to let me know
I have a message. Another message I
don’t want to read. I go back to bed
and wait for the sound of your keys in
the front door.Anger
I pull back the curtains allowing the
weak light from heavy skies to fill
the house. Your jacket hangs in its
transparent wrap on the back of the
door. I yank off the plastic, hold the
jacket to my nose. It smells clean.
You haven’t worn it since I had it dry
cleaned and yet you insisted it was done
straight away. I wasted a lunch hour for
you. Why did you not wear it? I hold it
up, inspect the pocket. There is no trace
of the red wine I spilt, and yet you said
it was ruined. I carry it up to our room
and open your wardrobe.
Your trousers ironed correctly,
hanging at the exact length you
specified. Your jumpers and T-shirts
folded just so on shelves. Never to be
worn by you again.
My stomach boils, and the heat