When she sits down on the chair that he once bought her for no particular reason, she always fights back tears. This happens like clockwork at eight o'clock every morning in her shoe-box writing room that overlooks a back alley.
On this particular morning, she stands just outside the door of the room. It's 7:55. The room feels half-empty. All of his things were moved out months ago.
"Asshole," she says, looking at the ergonomically correct chair. Her eyes dart back and forth between the chair and the window. There is an open dumpster two stories down.
She stretches her back which has creaked and ached all the way down to her tail bone over the past year and decides to sit down to write a story about a weeping butt-cheek who is consoled her butt-cheek neighbor.
After she finishes it, she laughs out months of pent up stress.
She never contemplates the opened or unopened state of the dumpster ever again.