by Antonia Harvey
It took a long time for Lucy Morgan to die.
It was an unremarkable death, a slow unraveling of skin and synapses and self that inconvenienced no one and left nothing behind but dust and the lingering memory of lavender in the air. And then, after men in white suits had come and vacuumed away all the traces, sealed them in little clear bags and thrown them away with the evening garbage, nobody seemed to remember that there had once been a person there at all.
It had started simply, in the quiet twisting time lapse of an ordinary day--wake up, get up, clean teeth, brush hair, make tea, get dressed, do the crossword, listen to the endless tick tick tick of watch parts and the buzz of a fly and wonder if the toast will burn. There was nothing to suggest that this day was unlike any other; she went about the quotidian tasks of her quiet lonely life, thought complacent thoughts, dreamed a younger woman's dreams, and never noticed that she was coming apart until she looked down in the shower and saw her idle fancies washing away down the drain.