A Decent Interval

Three months. Maybe four. You stop counting the days, after a while.

Her pillowcase still smells of her. I haven't washed it. That isn't strange. People keep things.

But is there a rule? A decent interval before a man's allowed. Before it stops being a betrayal and starts being living. I keep waiting for someone to tell me the number.

She'd laugh at me. Agonising up here in the dark. She always said I overthought the simple stuff.

Fine. She'd want me happy. She told me so, at the end. Don't put your life on hold.

So I won't.

*unzips