She left in
her wake, countless
streamers. Clear plastic with
small red trim, the
razor thin cellophane from
cigarette boxes. They were strewn about the car and apartment and no amount of regular cleaning could get
rid of them. She had also burned each cigarette down to
the filter, which she left in ash trays and
wine bottles. Empty boxes were tossed into trashcans, but the empty pill bottles stayed on the kitchen counter waiting for ... I don't know,
a pharmacy that delivered? Or a
Librium fairy.
People visiting our place were not the most fastidious, so we had few complaints at parties. It was only after she left for good that the evidence was so striking, so obvious. I had never noticed how much refuse her personal habits had generated.
I was surprised, I suppose, because I had thought someone who was so internally combustible wouldn't leave so much of herself behind.