The memory of you both is fading. The house has been scrubbed of your grease, your dirt, your smell of burned food cooked far too late in the evening. You are becoming a story we tell to others over a glass or two of wine: "Remember those two housemates of ours..?"
Like a failed romance. The same bitter notes sent back and forth in the last days before you had boxed all your things and left, the door banging angrily after you.
The cats have relaxed. We've stopped locking up the booze. The neighbors no longer assail us with stories of hearing your drunken phonecalls in the driveway late at night.
It started out so well. Ended so badly.
We all lived, however, to tell the tale. Each in their own way.
So it goes.