Walt

She stared at the empty chair, dark green and worn out. It seemed so peculiar to not see Walt in it, complaining and gesturing as he barked at the telly. She missed the yellow nicotine strip in his white quiff and his bloody awful tartan slippers she’d been trying to get rid of for ages. She’d put them in with him, it would have made him laugh that would. She wept then, remembering his hoarse 40-a-day cackle. She’d kept his glasses though, and his tired blazer, they were in the cupboard under the stairs.