Debra

A woman stands at a sink. The water is running. She has been standing there for some time.

There was nothing to look at. The garden was a few cracked slabs and a knackered fence panel. 

Debra sighed, and turned the tap off. She picked up her mug, washed it, and then her plate. One of each. Not how it used to be. 

She dried her crockery. Put them away and stood for a moment, the empty kitchen’s silence hurting her ears. 

If she listened, she could hear echos of his voice. His laughter first. and then, later, his pain.