Ariel woke up with a pang in her chest. She looked at the clock on the nightstand. 6:30. Light was coming through the beige curtain on her window. A framed picture of her and David from a friend's wedding sat on the bookshelf. She was smiling, looking down while David kissed her forehead. Ariel pushed the covers off of her. The feeling of relief was coupled with an emptiness that the apartment reflected. She staggered through each room, absorbing the distance between herself and the mirrors, paintings, bookshelves, and chairs. Each object felt two-dimensional and moving closer didn't settle her. She wrapped herself in a bathrobe and made coffee. She gazed over her mug at the couch which seemed alarmingly red today. "I have to get out of here," she mumbled to herself. Without eating breakfast or taking a shower, she threw on some jeans and one of David's old t-shirts and left.
It was bright and she had forgotten sunglasses. It felt like a year since she had left the apartment, so trying to conceive of where she last parked her car seemed futile. Still, the '91 gray mercury sable sat only a few hundred feet to her left. She rummaged through her purse to find her keys. When she started the car, Neil Young's Harvest Moon boomed through her small speakers. She opened all of her windows and listened to the traffic.
