by Matthew Roy Davey
The previous tenants had abandoned some of their stuff when moving out: books in the bathroom, a Japanese doll in the spare room, dirty dishes in the sink. The estate-agent apologised and told us it would be taken care of before we moved in, should we like it.
In the fridge was a box of chocolates and a pint of separating milk. I opened the chocolates. Lying on the hard-centres was a piece of paper, folded once. I took a chocolate and opened the note.
I love you
I felt like a thief, reacting with no flash of joy, sad instead, a nothing meant for someone else. I wondered why they’d left in such a hurry. The chocolate was cold and hard.
Maria had not seen the note but then neither had my girlfriend. I would not make the same mistakes.
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