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Description
Claire does not find him at his funeral.

Dean's body lies in an open casket, face-up with soft wrinkles and loose muscles. There is nothing of her husband in this corpse. He was rough and jagged. It seems wrong to see his edges smoothed down.

She hovers over his body and feigns sorrow. She hears family and friends weep and whisper comfort into each others' ears behind her. They offer their words and shoulders to her and she nods politely and pretends to cry.

All the while, she traces the ring on her finger and does not flinch when the diamond cuts into skin.

Claire looks for her husband. It is exhausting, but she has time.

In the rooms of their house, she does not find him. Instead she finds the ghost of him, his scent lingering in the cracks and crevices of the floorboards. Two weeks after the death of his body, her husband still has not returned.

His disappearance cuts into her now, making her grief raw and causing a tightness in her chest. There is a pressure on her lungs, as if her body cannot breathe in enough air.

Claire kneels, leans towards the floor and inhales. The smell of spice and ground coffee fill her nose. Her chest loosens and she sobs.

She finds traces of him in memories and in sleep.

A warm eddy of wind sweeps her hair. She tastes salt and leans against Dean whose arms pull her into an embrace. The ocean is a heaving mass of shattered glass and broken sunlight refracting a brilliant blue.

She tilts her head upward to kiss him when her cellphone buzzes and Claire wakes.

Dazed and hopeful, she checks it but only sees an old friend saying I just found out and I'm sorry for your loss.

She stares at the screen.

It has been five months.

She continues to send messages to his cellphone writing when will you be back? and come home please and I love you.

She has not heard from him yet.

Claire studies the phone and, carefully, replies Thank you and I'll be fine.

She will persevere.

It is nearing closing time and her server has already changed the candle on the table four times. She catches him looking at her sympathetically and she smiles to reassure him. The seat across her is empty.

It is their anniversary and he still has not arrived.

There is a bucket full of ice and condensation beads on the bottle of Moscato d'Asti inside it. Claire reaches for it, twists the cap, and pours herself a glass.

Inhale.

Exhale.

His scent is faint now.

She lies on his side of the bed. It's cold.

The park has changed little.

The wooden bench is metal now, but the tree remains the same height and the grass is still the dull green she remembers. It's quiet. A breeze carries the smell of flowers.

She had waited here when Dean asked her to without giving a reason why. He appeared later, body stiff and tense, walking down the concrete path. She remembers the warmth that flushed through her body when he got down on one knee and proposed to her.

Today, the ring she wears feels cold and dead.

Claire waits.

There is a service on the anniversary of Dean's death.

She hovers over his picture. Her chest is constricted.

Grief is a thing she has lodged in her heart. It is heavy and it is cold, but its edges are hard and jagged. Like him.

This time, she cries.

Description
Claire does not find him at his funeral.

Dean's body lies in an open casket, face-up with soft wrinkles and loose muscles. There is nothing of her husband in this corpse. He was rough and jagged. It seems wrong to see his edges smoothed down.

She hovers over his body and feigns sorrow. She hears family and friends weep and whisper comfort into each others' ears behind her. They offer their words and shoulders to her and she nods politely and pretends to cry.

All the while, she traces the ring on her finger and does not flinch when the diamond cuts into skin.

Claire looks for her husband. It is exhausting, but she has time.

In the rooms of their house, she does not find him. Instead she finds the ghost of him, his scent lingering in the cracks and crevices of the floorboards. Two weeks after the death of his body, her husband still has not returned.

His disappearance cuts into her now, making her grief raw and causing a tightness in her chest. There is a pressure on her lungs, as if her body cannot breathe in enough air.

Claire kneels, leans towards the floor and inhales. The smell of spice and ground coffee fill her nose. Her chest loosens and she sobs.

She finds traces of him in memories and in sleep.

A warm eddy of wind sweeps her hair. She tastes salt and leans against Dean whose arms pull her into an embrace. The ocean is a heaving mass of shattered glass and broken sunlight refracting a brilliant blue.

She tilts her head upward to kiss him when her cellphone buzzes and Claire wakes.

Dazed and hopeful, she checks it but only sees an old friend saying I just found out and I'm sorry for your loss.

She stares at the screen.

It has been five months.

She continues to send messages to his cellphone writing when will you be back? and come home please and I love you.

She has not heard from him yet.

Claire studies the phone and, carefully, replies Thank you and I'll be fine.

She will persevere.

It is nearing closing time and her server has already changed the candle on the table four times. She catches him looking at her sympathetically and she smiles to reassure him. The seat across her is empty.

It is their anniversary and he still has not arrived.

There is a bucket full of ice and condensation beads on the bottle of Moscato d'Asti inside it. Claire reaches for it, twists the cap, and pours herself a glass.

Inhale.

Exhale.

His scent is faint now.

She lies on his side of the bed. It's cold.

The park has changed little.

The wooden bench is metal now, but the tree remains the same height and the grass is still the dull green she remembers. It's quiet. A breeze carries the smell of flowers.

She had waited here when Dean asked her to without giving a reason why. He appeared later, body stiff and tense, walking down the concrete path. She remembers the warmth that flushed through her body when he got down on one knee and proposed to her.

Today, the ring she wears feels cold and dead.

Claire waits.

There is a service on the anniversary of Dean's death.

She hovers over his picture. Her chest is constricted.

Grief is a thing she has lodged in her heart. It is heavy and it is cold, but its edges are hard and jagged. Like him.

This time, she cries.