She wakes up with his name on her lips. The dream is already beginning to fade away, but the feeling of unrest remains. Her eyes well up with tears, her heart thuds in her chest. The floodgates break, and tears flow down her cheeks.
She sits up in the bed, and tosses the blanket aside. Her legs are tangled in the bright red sheet, the skin pale in comparison. She rubs her eyes with the palm of her hand, her skin already beginning to burn from the salt of the tears. She looks around the room, her eyes slowly adjusting to the brightness of the mid-afternoon sun streaming in through the windows.
The tears have stopped, and she turns to climb out of the bed. Her bare feet touch the floor, then jerk up. The boards are cold. She lowers her feet into the pair of sandals lying beside the bed, and stands up. She gives her oversized t-shirt a tug to straighten it, and runs a hand through her short, black hair. She walks into the bathroom and flips on the light.
Her hair is sticking up in various places. She sighs, and picks up a brush. She runs the brush through her hair, but it doesn't have the desired effect. The errant hairs continue to defy her. She sighs again, this one louder and more frustrated than the last, and pulls a towel from the rack. She pulls her t-shirt over her head (to keep it dry), and turns on the faucet in the sink. She stands in the bathroom, in the frigid morning air, and waits for the water to warm up. She tests it with her fingers, then cups her palms together, and lets them fill up with water. She bends her head over the sink, and runs her hands through her hair. She repeats this until her hair is thoroughly wet. She turns off the faucet, and watches the water drip off of her head. Then she takes the towel and rubs furiously, soaking up all of the excess water. She drops the towel in the floor and looks at her reflection in the mirror.
Her hair is sticking up even worse than before, giving her the appearance of a crazed punk rocker. Her face is still dull with sleep, her blue eyes showing the only sign of life. She reaches for her shirt and pulls it back over her head. She runs a brush through her hair, the errant strands now lying down. Satisfied with that, she turns back and goes about the business of brushing her teeth and washing her face.
She returns to the bedroom, her thoughts turning to the things that she had to accomplish that day. She walks to the closet and begins to flip through the clothes, her actions on autopilot. Her mind tries to recall her dream. All that she can remember is that he was in it, and they were happy. It has been this way since he left, over a year and a half ago. She falls asleep thinking of him, he haunts her dreams, and she wakes up crying. She tries to shake it off and go on about the day, but it becomes a little more difficult every time she has another of the dreams. They're always the same.
She finishes dressing. She performs the same tasks that she performs every day: Make-up, hair, shoes, jewelry. She wears a single piece of jewelry, a simple, silver cross that he gave her for Christmas. She looks at herself one last time in the mirror. Her reflection satisfies her, and she turns out the light. She picks up her bag, and walks to the front door. She steps out into the sunlight, squinting against the glare. And so another day begins, just like all the others. She hopes that this one holds something different than the last.