The house is empty and silent, a handwritten note on the dining room table: I'm going to New York over the weekend, there's food in the fridge.
Luckily, there's also a large amount of alcohol in the liquor cabinet and a set of Chanel dresses from 1974 in the closet. It sounds and smells like a Friday night. If only S were here, we'd have pillow fights in our underwear (like girls do) and drink all our stupid problems away. Her being away is like a constant phantom pain in my amputated heart. I try to fill the void with other people but no one is as close to me as she is.
No one is as close.