FicWad

In a few hours, the sun will come up. The drapes have been arranged so that the light will fall onto the face of the blond man on the bed. He will wake up slowly, arms sliding across the bed, feeling for someone who should be there but isn't. His brain will refuse to compute this and tell him, regretfully, to wake up.

He'll obey, slowly surfacing, waking to a bed that smells of sweat and sex and fine perfume. The colours will seem muted, and the sounds dimmed. He'll stare around him, knowing what's missing and refusing to believe it.

The rainbow of clothes in the wardrobe will be gone. The flat will be spotless, and there will be nearly no trace of his lover in the place. Claw marks on the headboard. A smudge of lipstick on his shirt. A few long black hairs caught in a hairbrush.

A note propped against the mirror, bearing a few words that were meant to shrivel his soul, anger him, make him wish to forget the man had ever existed.

Only decades later will D realise how badly he misjudged in writing that letter.