Staying in bed was only saturating the pillow. Wrapping a dressing gown round her, Alison threw herself at the cleaning, not daring to stop for a cup of tea. Struggling to control her inner debate, she turned on the hoover to drown it out.
Like a mantra, she narrated the clichés her mother would spill. “The grass is rarely greener, better the devil you know; be grateful for what you have.”
But nothing would dispel the voice of love iterating, “Compromise isn’t happiness. Love doesn’t know compromise.”
“It’ll pass,” she whispered, “No texts, no calls, I won’t see him again.”