Abbey gathered up her clothes, took them to the bathroom to wash. They were just damp, really didn’t need to be washed, but, having nothing to do, she took her time, then left them soaking.
She went into the kitchen, took out scattered left overs. Living alone, with little money, she wasted nothing, so half a burger, a few fries, a blob of chow mein on a plate, then into the microwave.
When she heard the ding she sat another two minutes, then removed the plate, let it cool for two more minutes , then sat at the table and ate. She chewed slowly, thinking about the flavours.
At the end, she put her plate in the sink, ran the water. She returned to the bathroom, wrung out her clothes, pt them on hangers, and then the shower bar.
She returned to the kitchen, washed her plate, then heated water, made a cup of coffee, moved to her sofa, lit a cigarette, and looked at the smoke, seeing that ship going into the fog.
That ship which she had translated into her life.
She wasn’t being melodramatic, she wasn’t wallowing in depression, she was as clear as those polished glasses on the counter.
How many years had it been since those glasses had been used? Ten? more?
Abbey once had a life.