At this point, it was starting to become a ritual.

Richard shut the apartment door behind him, locking it in the dark hallway. He stumbled a couple of steps forward before stopping and sliding off his sneakers. He knew better than to walk into the apartment with outside shoes. He could already hear her voice chewing his ear off about it. He squinted at the bright light as he put the pair on the shoe rack, a gap between each pair, leaving space for what no longer existed.

“Odd,” he thought to himself with a frown, “I don’t remember turning that on.”

He shook his head, letting the light guide him further in, straight to the kitchen. Opening up the cupboards, he pulled out a mug and set it on the counter. He then turned to the coffee machine, hoping for a pick-me-up; he was glad to see there was still a good amount from the morning. He sighed as he picked up the jug, turning back to pour the coffee into the two mugs. He stopped halfway through the second mug, his hand frozen in place.

“This has to stop, Richard” he whispered, placing the jug beside the mugs and his hands on the cold countertop.

He let out a breath as warmth surrounded him; he could hear her teasing remark in his ear. “You’re so cute when you’re slow, Richie,” the voice floated with a giggle.

The cold from the marble top seemed to seep in through his fingers and in no time the warmth he had initially felt was gone. “This has to stop,” he repeated, sterner than before.

He put his mug in the microwave, punching in the numbers and letting the hum of it fill the empty apartment. He emptied the second mug and the coffee jug, come morning, he would once again be brewing coffee for two.

The microwave kept humming in the background, stabilising him as he gazed across the counter. He could easily picture what she would be doing if she was seated there. Her head propped in her palms as her elbows would be resting on the surface. Her eyes would be doing all the smiling, though the rest of her face wouldn’t have gotten the memo.

He felt his body shift, a smile itching to form as his arm reached to tuck a curly braid behind her ear. The ding of the microwave stopped him. The image before him was gone. He focused on his watch. Almost 1 am. To him, that was plenty of time to get some work done and still get enough sleep before work in the morning.

Richard grabbed his coffee and walked to the bedroom, his sock-clad feet silent on the wooden panels. He headed straight for his desk, the desktop screensaver illuminating the room, and set the mug on a coaster. He sat with a sigh. For the second time tonight, Mary’s eyes stared at him. Clicking on the enter key, he quickly typed in his password, causing her face to fade away to the plain wallpaper of a sunset. It was one of their many sunsets but the view of it was easier than the view of her.

His phone buzzed and a message popped up on his screen: Thanks for coming out on such short notice man! You really got me going. Next time, drinks on me.

He let out a small chuckle as he opened the message, typing out a response: All good, bro! You know I always got your back.

He added a thumbs up and nodding emoji before hitting send. He glanced at the pinned contacts in the top right corner, watching the mouse icon drift closer to the name “Spicy Coconut”. He stopped just short of it.

“This is getting embarrassing, dude,” he thought, gritting his teeth.

There were two realities. The one where he recognised he should probably get some help. He had typed in ‘grief counsellor’ a good number of times into Google but never completed the search. And there was the other reality in which he didn’t want anything to change. The reality that had him pouring two cups of coffee.

“Where does the line between grief and delusion end.”

He closed the Messages app and opened the email one. It was pointless scrolling, a way to turn off his mind. All the important mail had been checked before he had met up with his friends at the bar. He appreciated them, they hadn’t let him rot away after it happened. At first, they insisted on hanging out with him without their partners, as if him bearing witness of their love would some how burn him. Maybe it would have. They never directly asked how he was doing, they would surround him in different environments, his apartment, a fishing spot, lunch during their work breaks, and chatter away like birds. Perhaps they thought if they were loud enough, he wouldn’t have the bandwidth to think. Finally, he had to make a joke to let them know that they could bring their wives and girlfriends around, and so the chatter got louder.

Nevertheless, at the end of the day, everyone would go their separate ways. The first few times he had entered the empty apartment, or cleaned up after they had left, Richard had tried filling the silence with music, but his playlist would ultimately slip into their shared one. He didn’t have the heart to delete the songs. So, he chose silence.

He locked his phone and tossed it to his bed, finally looking at the mattress with the bland grey sheets. His neck pillow was hanging off the headboard, just within reach. He stared at it, contemplating the comfort it could bring while he was seated. His finger twitched. He knew he was tired enough that the soft material might end up feeling like her arms around his neck, a position she so often took.

He nodded in resolution, turning back to the desktop screen. He took a gulp of the now warm coffee and opened his work application and documents. Work was an easy way to turn himself off. It required his attention. His concentration. He nodded again. “This will do,” he thought.

But like all things, like his relationship, the work eventually came to an end. It was well past 2am now, he knew he had to sleep. Even if all his work was done, his boss wouldn’t appreciate him coming in late. He picked up the mug, hoping for a few more drops of coffee; it offered him none. He logged out, watching as Mary’s features filled the screen again. Her sparse brows were raised in shock, widening her brown eyes in the process. A wide smile was on her lips, a smile not many got to witness. They were so precious to him that it was no surprise he had quickly taken a picture to immortalise it. She had been embarrassed of course, pretending to wrestle for his phone to delete it. Finally, she settled for a light punch on his arm, scolding him to not show it to anyone. My eyes only, he had told her. He had meant it. Her memorial pictures were less personal. He had let her parents pick them out.

Richard pushed the chair back and closed his eyes, the wheels rolling silently on the floor. He groaned as he stretched, his legs straightened and his arms above his head. He stood up and headed for the adjacent bathroom, needing to shower the night off him.

Her toothbrush was long gone, along with her facial products. Was it anger or sadness that drove him that day, he couldn’t recall. Tears had been spilling down his face, blurring his vision as he had cleared everything on the counter above the sink straight into the trash. His things as well. But his things were replaced, and now they stood alone.

He switched on the bathroom light and analysed his blank expression as he brushed his teeth. He couldn’t see much of a difference, but there was a saying about not noticing the differences in something you see every day that he didn’t really care to recall. She had loved his beard, so now he kept his face clean shaven. He knew he didn’t appear as attractive, all that mattered was that he looked decent.

Her things were still in the shower. His mom had heard the crashing sounds and had rushed into the bathroom, worried about his safety. She had offered to clear out the rest of the bathroom for him, except by then, he didn’t want anything else touched. She held him for a while as he had wept, shaking in her arms as he had when he was growing up. Later, she had gone out to the store and returned with toiletries for him. His things restored like they were never gone.

He turned the shower on, letting the cold-water change to hot as he raised the toilet seat up to take a leak. All he had were these sounds to prove that he was still going. The silence he had cultivated in the apartment was routinely interrupted by the shower, or the stove, the coffee machine, the washing machine. If Richard didn’t have responsibilities outside the apartment, he wondered if he would even speak.

He flushed the toilet and headed into the open shower, the glass wall the only barrier to the rest of the bathroom. He glanced towards the bedroom door, half expecting to see her wiggling her brows at him and making him blush. He felt his cheeks heat up, nonetheless.

He washed his hands in the stream before running his wet fingers through his hair and stepping under the shower. He stood there for a while, his eyes closed once again, letting his muscles relax beneath the hot water. The heat had done its job by the time he reached for his shower gel. She had picked it out. Said she liked it when he smelt spicy. He grew to like it too and so he kept on buying it. He also liked her coconut scented shampoo, so after lathering himself with the body wash, he took the shampoo bottle off the shelf, turning it over. 12-month shelf life, it read. He did the math in his head. It was one of the last things she bought; it would be a couple of months until he should stop using it.

He could hear her scolding but teasing voice as he squirted some into his palm, “Richie! Stop using my shampoo!”

“I’m not!” he would have replied in a mock serious tone. “You know the scent of coconut simply follows me everywhere, just like your jackets somehow smell like my cologne.”

She would have groaned playfully in response. Anyways, when they shared a shower, she would insist on using the shampoo on him herself.

He stared at the silver liquid, watching it slowly spread out in his palm. His earlier thought came back. “You need to stop.”

“I know,” he thought in reply, “but I can’t.”

He rubbed his palms together before working the shampoo into his hair. The smell of the sweet coconut and his spicy bodywash filled the bathroom. His eyes stung but he blamed it on the soap and shampoo. He turned the shower on, alternating between scrubbing his scalp and his body. With each shower and hair wash session, part of him hoped the scents would wash down the drain with the suds, most of him was glad it didn’t. The combination was them. Richard and Mary. Spice and coconut.

Richard remembered that he needed to sleep, so on his routine went. He turned off the shower, grabbed his towel and dried off from his head to his feet. He grabbed his nightwear from the small cupboard they had added to the bathroom. No more shivering to quickly grab clothes from the wardrobe after a shower. His body went through the motions. Mop the spilled water up. Put the towel on the rack and his dirty clothes in the hamper. And lastly, put the toilet seat down. There was no one to scold him about it, but old habits die hard.

He turned off the bathroom light, standing at the border between it and the bedroom. The space was once again drenched in darkness, the desktop acting like a night light. The bed was illuminated, and though he knew he needed to sleep, he couldn’t move.

“The couch,” he proposed to himself.

But as it went every night, he knew the couch would not suffice.

He took a tentative step forward. This was their marital bed. They had bought the apartment together and moved in after their honeymoon.

It was the place she sought comfort after a fight. A place he craved after a long day of work. A place of love. Of passion. Of peace. It was their home within their home. Their lighthouse.

His family hadn’t let him sleep in it after Mary had passed, however, after the funeral, they couldn’t keep him from it. They had no reason to. He had told them that he was fine and that he would continue to be fine. He had kept his word. He didn’t isolate himself or shut people out. But they didn’t know that this was his routine since he had come back. Slow steps towards his comfort and his sorrow. Consciously or subconsciously preparing enough for two. Switching on lights and rearranging shoes. They didn’t know that he acted like a man possessed.

And so, he continued towards the mooring. Climbing aboard the warm sheets that drew his exhaustion to the surface. He plopped down, his damp hair slowly soaking the cold pillow. He rolled onto his side, an arm reaching for the empty space across from his.

As clearly as always, there she was, reaching her own arm for his face. He closed his eyes as he braced for the touch. Nothing came. This time, there was no pretending that the sting in his eyes was anything but his tears.

He grabbed the pillow that was hers, covered in satin to protect her curls, and drew it to himself. He pressed his face against it, breathing in the laundry detergent. Her perfumes were one of the first things to go. Her sisters had taken them, said it was for his own good. It continually took much resolve for him to not order more. He understood that keeping her pillow smelling exactly like her would be his undoing.

So, he settled for the pillow itself. He wrapped both arms around it, his silent tears dampening it. The fatigue came from inside, and by the time they reached his hands, causing his grip to loosen, Richard was already asleep.