Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 29324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 147(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 147(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
I pace. I pace until the tile in the entry is worn from my heel, and then I pace some more. Each turn brings me back to the kitchen, then the living room, then the kitchen again, like a dog tracing the limits of its leash. The house is silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the whisper of my own breathing. There’s a clock on the wall, a gift from Aric when I moved in, and I check it every five minutes. The hands barely move. Time has never passed so slowly in my life.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her. Not just her face or her hair or her storm-glass eyes, but the way she moves—fast and bright and a little reckless, like a swallow in a windstorm. The way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not watching. I see the delicate twitch of her mouth when she’s fighting a smile, the restless fingers that can’t sit still, the neat little scar on her chin that only shows when she tilts her head just so. I see all of it, and every time, my pulse slams the inside of my neck so hard I worry I’m going to black out.
This is the part where I would usually lose myself in a fight, or a run, or a two-hour session of punishing deadlifts in the gym. But I’ve banned myself from all of that today. I have a mission, and for once, it involves not destroying something, but building it. I’m not sure I’m equipped for the task, but fuck it, if the universe wants to see me squirm, I’m not going to give it the satisfaction of quitting.
I take inventory of the house. Everything is, by my standards, fine. By human standards, it’s probably Spartan, but I’ve read three books on “domestic comfort” in the last twenty-four hours, and I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to have “cozy accents.” Which I don’t. Fuck.
The kitchen is spotless, but it isn’t enough. The air smells faintly of the cleaning solvent I used last night, and for some reason, this offends me. I dig out the citrus spray from under the sink and spritz it liberally on every hard surface. Then I scrub the counters until my arms burn. I rearrange the spice rack three times before giving up and alphabetizing it. I mop the floor with the same precision I use to polish my grandfather’s war axe. The act of cleaning is almost meditative, but it does nothing for the static in my veins.
Next is the living room. I check every surface for dust. I check the dust for dust. I use a microfiber cloth on the TV screen, the windowsills, and the tops of every doorframe. I remove every book from the shelf, wipe them down, and re-shelve them in order of descending height. When I find one out of place, I fight the urge to snap it in half. Instead, I set it aside and glare at it for a full thirty seconds before reshelving it perfectly.
After a while, my hands are trembling and my shoulders ache. I strip off my shirt, which is now damp with sweat, and throw it in the wash. I clean the washing machine dial with a toothbrush before starting the load. I clean the toothbrush after. At some point, I become aware that this is all insane, but I can’t stop. If I stop, I’ll have to think. I don’t want to think.
I move to the bathroom. Even though I know it’s already immaculate, I check every tile, every grout line, every inch of the shower glass. There’s a stray hair in the sink, so I clean the sink three times. I check the towels for softness. I switch them out with fresh towels, just in case.
Back in the kitchen, I open the fridge. It’s full. I close it. Then I reopen it, convinced I saw something out of place. The yogurt cups are not facing the same way. I rotate them so the labels all line up perfectly, then step back and check my work. This process takes five full minutes. I don’t care. When it’s right, I close the fridge and stare at the steel surface, admiring my handiwork and wondering what the fuck is wrong with me.
The worst part is it doesn’t help. I’m still a goddamn mess. When I pass the mirror in the hallway, I barely recognize myself: shirtless, sweat-slick, dark circles around my eyes. I look like I’ve been on a three-day bender, not prepping for a dinner date.
The clock says ten-seventeen. Fuck. She isn’t coming until after seven tonight, and there’s nothing left to clean.
I stand and survey the battlefield. The house is immaculate. I have run out of things to fix.