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She could recognise him in a crowd just by how he put a fraction more weight on one leg than the other; like she’d memorised the DNA of his walk.

She circled his favourites in the television guide; placed his brand of cigarettes at his fingertips.

All the things she knew he didn’t know back.

His shape filled one half of her bed. His outline sprawled across her armchair.

She prattled to stop herself being eaten by silence. She fussed to remind herself she was there; all the time knowing the flesh and bones of his love had gone.


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Elaine Marie McKay lives in Scotland. She has stories in various flash fiction publications including Literary Orphans, 100 word story, Flash Fiction Magazine and a number of anthologies

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