The narrator struggles with grief after the loss of their partner Emma. They find comfort in small reminders of her like her pillowcase and the collection of mugs in the kitchen. Nearly a month has passed since "That Sunday" which the narrator remembers involved rain, laughter from nearby children, and the smell of brakes - recalling Emma's death. The narrator imagines Emma still being with them and finds it easiest to live as if she were still there, though they know surviving without her is more complex than they ever imagined.

1. After Emma
I wake in the arms of orangesand ginger. Entwined in the weave of her
pillowcase, I cling to the soothing scent of her too afraid to wash it. Each
morningI useit to reviveher. Lying on her back with strandsof her
beautiful, brown hair masked across her face. Or sometimes with an arm
concealing cracks of sunlight from her weary eyes. This morning, she’s
resting with her back towardsmine. I imagine rollingand reaching outto
her bare shoulder. Closingmy eyes, I relivethe warmth of her skin; hear
the irritable sighs of disrupted sleep that alwaysmade mesmile. Trickles of
pink sunriseshatter the bed sheets wrappingthecurveof her body,
highlighting the scarce blondes hidden in her eyebrowsand the hairs on
her arms. I fantasizetracing the outlineof the birthmark hidden on the
base of her neck. Our dust floats before the window.
Nearly a month has passed since That Sunday, and yetI can still feel
the drizzlethat steadily seeped through our coats, touch the humid wet
hair that had smothered our faces. Hear the speckled laughter of children
from the nearby school, the maddeningcall of seagulls that danced above
our heads. Smell the nauseatingburn of brakes and tyres. Even now the
stench of iron turnsmy stomach, on rememberingEmma’s warm blood kiss
the gum-stained pavement.
Her favourite spotto loungeafter work was always the 1930’s
armchair next to the French window, which had seen much better days
even before she had adopted it from a neighbour who had emigrated to
America. I itched to grab the chair whilst she wasn’tlooking, and toss it in
the dump whereI felt it belonged. I once asked her why she never chose to
sit on the new sofa we had just bought together, a monthafter we had
moved in. With the biggest smile, swinging her legs and wavingher arms,

2. she replied, “I’m sitting in a tiny fragmentof history!”
She bore a strange infatuation for pottery, oneI found adorableyet
confusing. The kitchen cupboard is still overwhelmed with her collection of
teacups and mugs, which are now lightly lined with dust. Seeing them there
makes That Sunday adream. I’vefound the easiest way to liveis as though
she’s still here.
Too often I imagine her walkingtowards me, exploringmy chest with
the tips of her fingers, runningher hands down my armsto feel the veins,
softly licking my nose… She knew how muchI hated it and, for that, I loved
her more.
I’m sitting on the edge of our bed, staring at our bedroom door, my
handsclinging on to the sheets. My heart is racing underneaththe faded
lines of my nightshirt. The dusky rose dressinggown Emma slipped on
each morning, summer or winter, is hanging on the back of the door. I
watch her slide into the slippers with the smiling soles, violently rubbing
those beautifuleyes, and combing her sleep-knotted hair with her fingers.
Morethan anything, I wantto be able to feel her. To feel her weight, and the
oranges of her perfume, between my arms. I spot a stray strand of her hair
on my sleeve. I bury my face in the palmsof my hands, pullingat my greasy
hair as I feel the tears come with the waves of the ache.
After going to the bathroom I head downstairsinto the kitchen,
desperatefor a strong, sugary coffee. The wood flooringis cold beneath my
bare feet, yet fails to wake me. I take two mugsoutof the cupboard, filling
half of onewith milk to warm in the microwave and tossing a teabag into
the other. I tap the kettle to boil and pour myself alarge bowl of granola.
With dried fruitsand nuts, I’ve convinced myself it’s healthy by ignoringthe
various syrupsin the small printof ingredients.
As the kettle shakes, I stare at the mug that should be for Emma.

3. Habit, routine, call it what you will. It’s one I’ve continued to do every
morningsince. The kettle snaps‘done’and I stare at the teabag lying in the
body of her mug.
I’m terrified knowingthat the tiniest details of her will soon begin to
uncontrollably slip away. Every momentof consciousnessis spenttossing
within an unbearablelimbo of a need to remember and a wish to forget. I’m
uncertain as to which is morepainful. To which I would prefer. ButI know
that simply surviving, withouther, is more complexthan I could have ever,
ever imagined.
I fail to steady the palpitations. Although my handsare shaking, I try
to reassure myself that I need this. Slowly, I removethe teabag and place it
back in the jar. A shooting convulsion briefly mists my vision, sending my
hand flyingto my chest. The incessant beep of the microwavegradually
restores me to the smell of boiled milk. Disruptingits shrill cries, I open the
microwaveand removethe mug. I skin the wrinkled film from the steaming
milk and flick it into the bottom of the sink. It slowly squirms on meeting
the cool of the ceramic, curls, and then stills.