Julian's Woe

Julian sobbed, watching his wife’s sweater disappear behind the walls of the trash can. Dove leaned into Mélin’s ear.

“I don’t think he’s ready to do this”.

“He ‘hasn’t been ready’ for too long. He’s still got pictures of her up, sure, but he keeps and washes her clothes? Are you kidding me?”

Julian picked up a picture, and tossed it.

“The man is struggling. With love like they had, I don’t think I’d let go. Or you”.

“I just can’t stand to watch him play pretend husband anymore”.

“I can’t stand to watch him grieve his wife all over again”. A hair clip, tossed. “Look at him”. His hunched posture, tears and snot he allowed to crowd his face, and the restless heaving of his chest pierced them. “If ‘pretending’ like she’s alive makes him feel better, what’s the harm?”

He picked up a small brush. And tossed it.

Mélin frowned. “But, are you sure?” The two glanced at him again. Dove bit the inside of her lip, and took Mèlin’s hand in hers.

“No, not really”. They approached Julian, and Mèlin glued her focus to the ground beneath her. She watched in her peripheral, Dove stooping down to hug him. Her body was stiff with the threat of tears, and she let herself free them on his shirt.

“I know, I know,” he picked up a pink top. And looked at it. And felt it. So soft, it was. So soft. And… Stretchy and... It was her favorite. God, it was her favorite. Do I have to toss this one?