photo by Mahdis Mousavi via Unsplash
‘Sterile,’ she’d called it, but he liked the clean lines, the lack of clutter, seeing every inch in one glance, no filthy, cluttered corners, no bric-a-brac, no tatted doilies gathering films of dust or rugs piling up moulted hair, dropped crumbs, shed skin.
‘Embarrasing,’ she’d said when he dragged his blanket out onto the stairwell, his shrink-wrapped pillow. ‘Idiot,’ she’d hissed, slamming the door on the scent of floor cleaner, on the speck free tiles, the moon slanting blue through the spotless window.
‘Leaving,’ she said and she did.
‘Home,’ he whispered, closing his eyes.