Bibbity bip, said the fridge, with the door left open

Living alone

Bippity bip. “Don’t forget me”, sang the fridge, too chirpily given the circumstances. Despite its calls for attention, the milk soured, the cheese grew hard and cracked, the tomatoes split, and the lettuce wilted, then liquified, oozing green slime.

Beep-beep, beep-beep, insisted the washing machine: “I’m done here”. The clothes in the drum — once fresh with fabric conditioner — grew mildewed first, then dried out and stiffened, the pyjama top sleeves locked in a tight embrace with the leggings she would never wear again.

Thurrrrum. “I’m dying.” The final gasps of her USB radio running out of power. The loud music had disguised the thud of her head hitting the floor as she fell off the ladder.