The empty apartment didn't move.
Nothing left on, nothing running.
There, for a brief moment, the world was set on pause. The pictures on the wall telling the still, two dimensional stories with painted on expressions overacting to convey the mood of the situation being captured. These pictures served as voided checks in the lives of those inhabiting them. They were set on the wall to do no more than gather dust and fade; just as all memories often do. Yet, at the center of this space was the true evidence of life, not the pictures in there crooked frames and smudged glass, but a coffee table stood. Rightfully named, the table was littered with rings from coffee mugs of warm summer mornings passed watching television, cold winter nights snuggling to stay warm. This table stood proud, it had been through thick and thin, and this was clear. Dried paint chipped in every color from where it had once spilled during one of her many afternoons of passionately creating with gentle brush strokes as he watched and strummed his guitar. There were four permanent dips in the wood for which they had propped their feet up to relax and enjoy each others company. On the lower region of the upper right left was a knick that had happened on the doorframe when her side was just a bit too heavy on moving day. On the lower left corner of the table stood a stack of books; fairytales he would read her on her worst of days. it was truly their love story. Beauty found in the flaws and the memories from which the cracks came. And just like that the world awoke from its hibernation. The lock turned and he entered, dripping from the rain outside. The smell that the funeral flowers left in the apartment made him sick. He closed and locked the door taking a moment to gather himself, as a drop of rain fell from his face. He removed his overcoat, now heavy and drenched with rain. As it hit the table a crack could be heard from the lower region of the upper left leg and the table fell to the ground.
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