"Child coming to visit." Karen washes the spoon and ignores the spot on the floor. She takes carton and spoon to her desk. Sticky pink drips onto the mousepad. She bought strawberry because I don't like it. I can't blame her, sometimes.

She types the familiar string into the search engine. She does it at least once a week. It's substance to know she cares, watches. Karen’s searching the news now. She hits the alert option before she answers her door.

A little boy stands there, open Bible in his hands. Two women stand behind him, bosomy, nurturing. Karen pulls her robe tighter across her chest, fumbles in her purse for a dollar. She tells the boy she's busy but she'd like him to pray for the forgotten.

Peach, green, red, pink and blue, another peach - she takes the pills and turns back to the screen, bookmarks pages, searches terms, reads a poem. She lights a candle - pine, and sleeps too deeply to dream beneath the flickering light.

Karen washes her lunch dishes; the fork misses the cutlery basket and skids beneath the refrigerator. "Expect a woman," she grumbles and grabs a skewer to fish it out.

She wheels her computer desk to the couch and flips the television to someone wondering who their baby’s daddy is. She switches to The History Channel when there's a knock on the door.

"Screenshot the page. It'll be gone!" I follow her steps. She's not listening to me.

It’s a woman from the rental agency accompanying a plumber. They get the kitchen floor wet.

"Last chance," I breathe.

Karen pulls her shawl tighter, watches the damned world go by on the screens. If she doesn't stop, I'm gone for good. Pissed, I leave the room.

The kitchen is dark. Where's the fucking jalapeno sauce? It was on top of the microwave. She's been cleaning and disposing. She found things under the bed - receipts, dinner tabs, empty beer bottle. She tossed them.

She never minded my mess before. She liked it. Watched out for me. Now she makes empty spaces. She still feels me at her shoulder, but I'm history if she doesn't save the screen. Her search of the Springfield Times returns 'No Results'.

She moves my hand from hers with a scratch, returns to her online puzzle, a sunset. She puts the right colors in the right rows and smiles as pieces click together. Insipid, really - sunsets. As bad as the poetry she reads. Other people's words about other people. She could write her own about me.

"I told you Bitch!"

Better. She's searching blogs. 'Zero items found'. She flicks to another, another, another - same results. It's all becoming the same. She goes to bed. I curl up by the front door to keep goblins away and enjoy the cool breeze through the crack. In my mind I write code for the blog she could make but won't.

The draft flows around me and through me. I wait for tomorrow.

Tapping rouses me. She's writing to my hometown newspaper. She calls herself Raphael. Who's next, Uriel? She switches, a Shakespearean name for a quip with a 'forsooth'. Lazy bitch should do more. She searches. Old news. Less news. One memory. One story. One comment. Most gone to pay-to-read archives she won't pay for.

She never listens. Every trash bag and screen refresh carries something away. Dammit! I told her to save. The link back is misplaced. She finds it. Cunt still doesn't save. Figures she has three hundred days. She'll forget.

She starts dinner. I elbow a knife off the counter. Her foot dodges the blade. A faint smile crosses her face. "Expect a man."

Arrogant bitch, I'm right in front of you. I hate you, but this place you keep for me is comfortable. Now you're emptying me. My hand slides through the keyboard. Am I missing my funeral? My obituary's off the screen. Wonder if I can make the afterparty? I'm starving here.

(Previously published in the flash fiction blog Flashing In The Gutters)