The dust slowly began to settle at their feet. Shallow breaths getting deeper. They were both looking at the ground, not knowing what else to do. The door was slightly ajar, waiting for one of them to walk through it, to slam it. He took the opportunity. The door crashed shut behind him, most of his weight pushed into it. Then the slam of another door, the bedroom.
She drew in a deep breath, closing her eyes. She walked out of the room, moving as quietly as possible. The bathroom was cool. She switched on the shower, letting the water run. It was too hot but adjusting it seemed like too much effort. She was sure she would acclimatise.
She rubbed shampoo roughly through her hair, pulling through the knots she hadn't brushed out. It hadn't gone as planned: he wasn't supposed to be angry, he was supposed to be sympathetic. She couldn't shrug the sense of guilt, even though it wasn't her fault. She washed the shampoo out, tugging at her hair. The brush was in the bedroom.
It was getting harder to see through the steam, her head spinning in the heat. She dried off and wiped a little at the mirror. Her skin was red. Running the cold tap, she rubbed at her cheeks. She tied her dripping hair up and began to tug clothes back on. She rubbed at a mascara stain beneath her eye and moved towards the door. The living room was empty. Collapsing on to the sofa, she waited. Somewhere in the flat, a door opened.
He sat down next to her, neither of them knowing what to say.
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