  Perspiration. Her cheek’s red. The run had done some good. Stopped her thinking at least. Gulping air into her lungs. The Shower beckoned. Her life trapped safely in routine. Stopped her mind wandering. But of course, the more she realised she wasn't thinking about him, the more he popped into her head.
That was the vicious circle of it, she thought. Noticing that you're not thinking of something makes you think on it. Hands on hips, bent over, waiting for the beat of her heart to slow, remembering how he liked to press his ear to her chest and listen. Her hands in his hair. Repeating the action, fingers clutching at the lost times. She stands up, shakes her hair out. She should not be remembering him. He was the past (his kisses on her neck). She had chosen to forget.
Gotten rid of all the touches he had made in her life. All the little mementoes and keepsakes. Thrown away. The photos burned. (The taste of his tears as she held him when he woke from nightmares. ) He was as good as dead to her. She presses her right toe against the back of her left shoe, and pulls her foot free, without bothering to untie the laces. Her left toes performing the same feat for her right shoe. She flicks the now discarded running shoes under the occasional side table, thinking with glee that he hates it when she does that. It will really wind him up. (Except he isn't here to be wound up. ) She puts her keys on top of the table, in the saucer with the loose change.
Her feet in red socks. There's a hole in the right one. Just on the nail of her big toe. It's then she realises the socks are his. He brought them for himself, but never wore them. Why hadn't she remembered this before? The last thing of his she owned, now worn away. Still the shower beckoned, and it's call could not be easily avoided. Cheeks returning to their natural pale colour, her breath caught up with her need for oxygen. The hot water of the shower returning her to the bliss of routine. The socks thrown in the laundry basket, waiting to be repaired. 
