You Made It Too Easy

Hello.

Old friend.

Should I say I’m sorry?
(Oh, but I’m not.)

You see, today was one of those days when the sun was relentless. I fanned myself a few times, but it helped me no more than that stupid broken fan that hangs from the ceiling.

I remember your red hair, plastered to your forehead as you complained about the heat exactly three hundred and sixty five days ago. Yet, you did nothing to fix what you broke, did you?

The air today was heavy with the positively delightful stench of sweat, and it was when I was searching for a cure for this suffocation, a respite, that the idea of, let’s say visiting you, entered my mind.

I’m sorry (again, I’m not) that I broke into your house. You see, I know exactly where you keep your spare key because it’s where I keep mine. It was far too easy to turn the key twice to the right, to let the door swing open, to take in the vision of your garish sunshine yellow washed walls. It was too familiar a sight.

I remember your midnight blue shirt, flecked with that hideous bright yellow. I wanted something less bright, more muted, but you picked the shade for my walls and we painted it one weekend, seven hundred and forty days ago. My walls are still the same, and now yours look like this too.

Your bedroom is no different. There is a window next to the bed, because you like to sleep facing the night sky. It’s why we bought my apartment in the first place, and these days, when I shut my window at night, I wonder if it’s because I can’t sleep facing the same sky as you do.

One two three
One two three

The same books. The same number. Isn’t that why we got along at first? We like the same books.
We like the same stories, so maybe, just maybe you’ll like this one.
The same fittings. The same number of drawers in the kitchen.
The same number of knives in the same wooden block.

It’s your bedroom again. Or should I say mine?
Your wardrobe. Your safe.
My wardrobe. My safe.
Familiar numbers dance on my fingertips. Of course I know your code. It’s the same as mine. It was far too easy to turn the dials, to swipe away all the bills you’ve neatly stacked, to think of it as alimony.
You made it too easy.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to clean you out, to take all your money.
But I need it. I have a fan to fix, dear ex-husband.


Note to the reader: This story was written in response to this prompt. Do check it out and tell me if I’ve done justice to the prompt.

Doppelgänger Alert

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