When I opened my eyes that morning I knew I should have sayed asleep. My head felt terrible and when I got up it felt worse.
I don't care much for anything since she's not here, so I shuffled through the flat, weaving dirty glasses and unoppened letters addressed to " The Walkers", lying on the floor - there are no more "The Walkers", juat me. I could smell the cheap wine in my breath, so I thought that milk might help, but I was wrong. Awfully groomed, I left the house and staggered along the alley, trying to avoid the joggers who were happily scampering under the morning sun, and the old ladies walking their tiny dogs.
At Pasadena Street some gleaming red hair caught my attention. I couldn´t believe my eyes. There she was, my dearest, ambling along the street and watching the arrogant strut of the doves. 'Lauren,' I mumbled, and started to run, but no matter how fast I tore towards her, she was always out of reach. The strangest thing was the fact that I couldn´t actually perceive how she walked. It was as if she were floating in a cloud of mist, because her feet weren´t moving at all. But I couldn't let her go away again, so I persisted in following her, past the church, through the park...
With wet eyes I found myself in our destination: the graveyard. I shuffled to her grave and fell down on my knees by the marble gravestone with a dry rose and the legend: "Lauren Walker - 1964-2003."
