While he was gone for the day, she’d try on his things. Stomp around the living room in hi
While he was gone for the day, she’d try on his things. Stomp around the living room in his shoes. Dance in his shirts. It wasn’t so much that she wanted to see what she’d look like in them, but more it was a surrogate, a poor imitation of the man himself. Sometimes, when he was gone, the smell was enough. It triggered memories, created little snippets of him that she could cling through, like an addict getting enough of a taste to keep from jonesing too bad. -- source link
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