Write
I couldn't sleep with her next to me. So cold. Her skin. I had to pretend she was still alive. There was no way that I could imagine she was no longer going to be waking me up with her laugh, kissing me when I refuse to get up for the alarm, tickling me when I roll back on my side and try and get a few more moments in bed, before the inevitable morning routine for work.
She was lying on her back, no longer looking at the mirrored ceiling, but deep in her thoughts. I convinced myself they would be of me, the children, her work. She was, no I mean, she is an artist. Portraits. In oils. So brilliant she is. Royal Academy.
A thought tries to enter my brain but I push it away, but it perseveres. She is no longer as soft as before.
She is so cold.
What am I going to do?
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