Life without William isn’t really life at all. I wake up each morning, going through motions with rote commitment. I feed Lila. I wash her face. I dress her. I make her take a nap.
While she sleeps, or pretends to sleep, I attempt to sketch.
When that doesn’t help, I crack open my green diary. Instead of words, all I can produce is thick black scratch marks at the top of every page.
It’s not like I could really write anything of importance in here. He reads it. Or he might.
Lila wakes. I feed her again.
I take her to the back yard. She takes her doll, and plays quietly in the grass until she’s itchy. When she begins to fuss, I drag her inside and wipe down her legs with a cool cloth. Then I set her down on to the cool tile of our kitchen floor and prepare dinner while she bangs on pots with silverware.
The only relief from this monotony is our Friday parties. Though admittedly, they’re also entirely painful.
William doesn’t come around much anymore. This is not to say he never does, but the regularity has trickled down to once in the last several months. I suppose that is what works best for the two of us, anyway. Seeing him often might only lead to public tears; and those would be difficult to explain away.