(Credit: reslife.winonastateu)

I can’t get the red stains out of the floor.

They must be from her red wine, but people will likely think someone was murdered here, and how am I going to sell the flat then?

Then there is the carpet. That old mop of black and grey stripes will send almost anyone running and the rest will be out the door, when they see the cat hair sofa.

No, it is not actually made of cat’s hair; there is cloth under there somewhere. I think.

I should never have told the estate agent that I would sell the place furnished, but I just want to get rid of it all at once.

The flat,

The furniture,

The cats,

The oven, which smells burnt from my first cookies,

The memory of the long dark evenings huddled around the radiator,

And her rasping voice telling me of Alice’s adventures in Wonderland or her cats’ adventures in the forest,

And the Earl Grey, too sweet from all the sugar cubes, the oversized cup warming my cold hands.

It is too much,

And it has turned bitter in spite of the sugar,

And I just want to pour it all out in the sink.