Past

She entered, but didn't turn the lights on. Throw her bag where she knew there was a chair. It was always there. She knew that house as if it were her own. She knew everything about him. Even that wasn't probable that he would appear there at that time. It was too early. And she didn't need too much time, just enough.

She lay on the floor, the same floor they had used as their bed so many times before. It was cold and a shiver ran down her spine. With her eyes wide open, she tried to figure out the room in the dark, but all she could see were shadows made by the street light, but it wasn't sufficient to show what was in the room. As she couldn't see, she imagined.

The same bottle of wine by half she had left was still laying on the table, the glasses beside. The blanket over the couch giving signs winter was close, and his jacket hanging on a chair... All these were familiar to her and she was sure everything was just like she left some days before.

Standing beside the table, still in the dark, she faced what she had to do there, that night. Took off her bag a small paper, previously written, saying his keys were back, as he had asked. No word wasted, nothing but objective talking.

When she left, light outside the door blinded her eyes and she had to wait for some seconds before she could go downstairs. But she didn't look back. Downstairs, one more thing was going down. Tears.

If she had turned lights on, or looked over her shoulder before closing the door, she would have seen a folded blanket, an empty bottle of wine beside a glass stained with a red lipstick she would never use and a new picture replacing her own on the coffee table. But she will never know how fast time past in that house. For good or for evil.