The Empty House


Listen to this …..

Read this……

This is the house she has always dreamt of.
Still, silent, each room a perfect cube of serenity and good taste.
The kitchen work surfaces, marble, imported, gleam from the daily and mostly unnecessary cleaning routine she cannot give up.
The bathroom smells of expensive scented candles, jasmine, lily, vanilla, there is plenty of room now for these and the expensive bath products that stand in serried lines on the window sill.
The shoe racks, placed sensibly in the hallway, to avoid any danger to the now pristine white carpets, are full of shoes, each one neatly paired with its partner, no over-spill, no abandoned, solitary over-sized trainer, laces spewing onto the coire matting.
The coat hooks are full of coats, one coat to each hook, the umbrellas, carefully dried, before being neatly furled all face the same way in the terracotta vase.
She goes out and when she returns, nothing has changed, nothing has moved, everything has remained the same.

Finally, she can take it no more and slowly, deliberately, she opens the final, unsorted bedroom drawer and finds what she needs.
She drops the y-fronts onto the floor, close to, but not in the canvas wash basket and immediately feels better.

About cathi rae

50ish teacher & aspiring writer and parent of a stroppy teenager and carer for a confused bedlington terrier and a small selection of horses who fail to shar emy dressage ambitions. Interested in contemporary fiction but find myself returning to PG Wodehouse when the chips are down View all posts by cathi rae

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