She always slept with an arm behind her head. And mouth slightly open. In a naively ugly way. With that sight, I would pull down the shutters, close the door quietly and leave. Every time I left that scene, I would go and stand by the kitchen window with the kids playing in the park two stories below. I would stare at them blankly for a while. It was like a routine.
There was nothing to think about her. It was as if she sucked out all thoughts from your mind. Her twisted shape sleeping soundly with the hand behind the head, operating that silent apparatus that pilfered your thoughts. And thoroughly unsettled, I would stand by the window and stare. Day after day. I felt neither love nor hatred because none of those feelings endured her presence. The stray thoughts that I forced into my mind would reverberate and die in the hollow nothingness within. This would quieten me which would annoy her. And she would start arguing. Not a passionate argument. An argument which spewed a kind of cold annoyance.
Standing outside one night, I turned the flashlight towards the sky. It sent a straight beam into the night sky and faded into the dark abyss above. I switched the beam on and off like an SOS message. She kept straightening out the clothes on the line occasionally glowering at me.