 TLDR, written in red by E. Jump to recipe, half cup of denial, one cup of anger, teaspoon of bargaining, one pound of depression, eighth teaspoon of acceptance, knead until you're numb, bake on the lowest setting until you remember what you forgot, then cook on high until you burn away whatever is left. He can't believe she's gone. She was here yesterday, gone tomorrow. Today nothing but an amateur magic trick, no flash of cape, no puff of smoke. The illusionist yanked the cloth, leaving the table bare, a vase of lilies all that remains, teetering on the brink of annihilation. The petals wilt and fall, collect on the polished surface. He sweeps them away into the dust pan of time. How could she leave when he needed her the most? Who does he turn to now that the person who was always there no longer exists? He's been demoted, relegated to discussing grief with strangers who didn't know her, had never so much as seen her. He breaks everything that reminds him of her, as if these material things had feelings, thoughts, lives to live in the aftermath of her death. He matches the outer with the inner, destruction, chaos, decimation. Everything by ten, every over-large feeling, frames reduced to fragments, bobbles betrayed and broken, carve the upholstery until it resembles his patchwork heart, Frankenstein it all back together, his rage the only glue that holds. He would give anything for another smile, a final embrace. Pawn his heart to make ends meet, even if he'll never have the means to reclaim it when the contract expires. Still he pays, knowing it won't be enough. The universe is a lone shark, and he is chum in the water. A din of silence, a sound that haunts, a lone in crowded spaces. How are you doing? I'm fine. He lies. I'm sorry for your loss. Thank you. As he internally pleads that he'll never hear this collection of words again. I hope you're taking care of yourself. He wants to do just that. Take care of himself. I'll join her wherever it is she's gone. Instead he drives to work, gives automated replies to perfunctory inquiries, drives home staring through the cars in front of him, wishes for sudden brake lights, his own slow reaction, welcome oblivion. Doesn't shower, doesn't shave, doesn't see the point. To remain would be a betrayal, and he's always been the faithful sort. He garners enough courage to go through her things, finds pictures of what used to be them in places that were once theirs. He would have bought these locations had he realized they were timeshares. The real estate market has collapsed. He can find many houses but not a single home, because there's no such thing as a family of one. Sometimes to be brave you must be a coward. His fear is the only reason he's still here, and he's finally okay with that. Her absence will never hurt any less, but he's no longer an empty salted wound. She scar tissue, nervous and numb yet tingling with the memory of what came before, not what now is. She smiles at him from pictures freshly framed, from fond memories and fleeting moments of tender togetherness. She was a teacher, her loss the lesson, graduation, the day he misses her and carries on despite her absence, because that's what she would have wanted. And from left wanting, TLDR, jump to recipe.