He’s made the necessary arrangements. It’s taken some time, a couple of weeks in fact to get rid of it all, a couple of weeks of mostly sitting with his legs crossed on the cold floor of the kitchen staring at the things she’d left behind that he’d have to dispose of, trying to look at them so intensely they’d fade out of focus, though they never they did: The broken comb that sat there on the kitchen counter, brown fuzzy hair wound around it, some of its teeth bent and pointing outwards. The porcelain mug left capsized in the sink, a handmade gift from his mother that she’d dropped and had to superglue together and that leaked everywhere. He’d got annoyed with all the stains produced in its wake and told her to chuck it but she refused, said she liked how it looked, like how something so perfect now had a little mischievous grin at its handle, as if the spirit of Loki lived inside it, as much as Loki lived inside her. Comments like that made him weak at the knees.
Then there was the notebook on the desk they’d set up in the front room when she’d moved in, somewhere she could work without distraction and away from his pacing and talking aloud, from his noisy, exuberant fingers that bashed away at his laptop like those of a drunken pianist. They’d positioned her so she could work with a view of the park directly across the street, she’d wake up especially early just to be around to watch the morning sunlight trickle in and set those leaves alight i as she drank that black coffee from that stupid dripping mug that left brown dots on the carpet he plans to replace soon.
She said everything about her mornings in that quiet place with that leafy view was perfect except for the absence of crashing waves outside her window. Everything was perfect even on the mornings of vomit and tears and no stomach for that black coffee in that stupid broken mug, and even in the evenings of strange questions, sleepless tossing and disquieting dreams. But the notebook she left behind testifies to none of any of the goodness that underpinned everything between them, in fact she never had any interest at all in recording any of the good things. All he could find flicking through this one tatty little object she’d left behind that could offer some entry point into what it was she was thinking at the time everything fell apart, were notes for translations he’d assigned her that grew more indecipherable the longer he looked at them.