A Husband for the Weekend
The pork chop sat perfectly in the centre of the plate. I stared at it and felt my stomach betray me with a quiet grumble.
Susan, do you mind if I make myself a sandwich? Im starving.
Mark, dinners in twenty minutes. Your dinners going cold if you start snacking.
Itll only be a quick bite, just a little.
Cant you wait? I planned everything so wed eat hot. The potatoes are ready at quarter past seven, the chicken comes out at twenty past. If you fill yourself up now, you wont eat your dinner properly.
I sighed and sat down at the table. Susan was by the fridge, organising groceries shed bought after work. Each item had its place: milk on the second shelf on the right, cheese in the cheese drawer below, yoghurts by expiry date, with the oldest at the front.
Can I at least have a cup of tea?
Go on then. Just the one sugar.
Susan, Im hardly a child.
Youre at risk. Your dad was diabetic, your grandad was diabetic. One sugar.
I reached for the kettle, but she was already there, making the tea herself, measuring a single spoonful of sugar and placing the mug in front of me.
There. Drink.
I looked at the cup. Then at her back, still turned to the fridge. I took a sip. The tea was watery and barely sweet. I didnt say a word.
It was already dark outside. It gets dark early in October in London, especially in our bit of Wandsworth, where the houses crowd together like books on a shelf. The streetlights glowed steadily, cars were parked in their usual spots. Life moved in its predictable routine.
We were fifty-seven and fifty-five, married for thirty years. The house was as spotless as a private clinic and as quiet as a reading room.
***
Saturdays in our house started promptly at eight. Not because we didnt want a lie-in, but because thats when the list of tasks began. Susan wrote it out Friday evenings, neat handwriting in a blue exercise book.
8:00 Breakfast.
8:30 Clean the house.
10:00 Shopping at Sainsburys by Clapham Junction, household stuff bought separately.
12:00 Lunch.
1:00 Rest, an hour.
2:00 Visit Aunt Edith.
5:00 Back home.
5:30 Dinner.
6:30 TV or book.
10:00 Bed.
I knew the list by heart. Not from reading it, just because it hadnt changed in about fifteen years. Only the names of relatives and sometimes the supermarket swapped.
I scrubbed the hallway floor, pushing the cloth from wall to wall, thinking of fishing. Just memories. I hadnt been in years must be eight, now. Last time was with Colin, from work, on the Thames near Marlow. We caught three little perch and a chub. We stayed till dark, made fish stew on a portable stove. Colin told old jokes, and we laughed until the ducks fled the water.
I got in late, past midnight. Susan was waiting up.
Do you know what time it is?
Yes, I know, Susan. We lost track a bit.
I called you eight times. Dinners in the fridge. Its not as nice now.
Sorry.
Do you know how much I worried?
Sorry, Susan.
After that, I just stopped going fishing. Not that she ever banned it. There was always something else a chore, repairs, a visit and gradually I stopped suggesting it. It was easier that way.
Mark, are you rinsing the mop properly? Dont wring it out too dry or youll leave streaks.
I did it her way, though I couldnt see the difference. The floors shone. Susan took pride in her house. She once said on the phone to a friend, You could eat off our floor. I heard it through the wall and thought Id never want to eat off a floor, even if you could.
Shopping went as planned. Lunch as planned. Aunt Edith gave us slightly burnt potato pasties, and Susan, as delicately and as loudly as possible, commented, Edith, I think your oven must heat unevenly. I wolfed down three, thinking they tasted all the better for being a little scorched underneath.
We were home by 5:20, ten minutes early.
Susan brought in the bags, put the kettle on, and brought out a precisely cut cottage cheese cake from the fridge, sliced into six perfect squares.
I sat down, looked at the cake, and was suddenly struck by a faint pang of panic. Not because of the cake, but because I knew exactly what the next day would bring. And after that. And the week after.
I finished everything, went to the living room, switched on the telly.
***
The hoover broke down on Wednesday evening. Just stopped sucking. I took it apart on the kitchen table blocked filter, and the brush connection cracked. An easy fix. Id been an engineer at Battersea Components Ltd for twenty-two years, and a hoover was hardly a challenge.
Susan came in and stood at the door.
What are you doing?
Fixing this. See, blocked filter, brush mountings snapped.
Mark, just call a repairman. Dont fiddle yourself.
Susan, honestly, this is simple.
Youve fixed the iron twice. First time, it never turned on again. Second time, you fixed it so it only got hot on one side.
That was different. I can see what the problem is here.
Mark.
Susan, Im an engineer!
Youre an engineer at a factory, not an appliance technician. Leave it, or itll cost more later.
Something shifted inside me. Quiet and stubborn, like a stone that starts moving after years in place. I looked at my hands, the hoover, her completely calm and confident face.
Ill fix it, Susan.
Mark
I. Will. Fix it.
She looked surprised, then a bit irritated, then left the kitchen.
It took me an hour. The hoover worked, better than before, really, now the filter was clear. I put everything back, ran the machine just to hear the sound.
Susan walked past, glanced in, nodded. Said nothing.
I realised Id hoped for at least a Well done.
***
I found the advert taped to a lamp post outside Clapham South tube. Mending old appliances, instruments, easels and so on. Address below. I wrote down the details and phone number. Id had my old Pye record player for years hadnt worked for ages now. Susan had suggested tossing it out long ago. I always said later and put it back on the shelf.
It was bought before wed got married. Dad had chipped in for it. Back at university, I used to play Jethro Tull and The Kinks on it, the records lined up in the bedsit window. When Susan and I moved in together, she stashed the records in a box in the loft: They just gather dust. Sometimes I checked they were still there.
The phone number was never answered. I decided to go round in person. Address was in Balham, at a house that looked straight out of the nineteen-thirties, with peeling paint and a door that needed a good push to open.
I found the right flat upstairs. I knocked. For ages nobody came. Then there was a crash, a clatter, and the door swung back.
A woman about my age stood in the doorway, wearing an apron spattered in blue and yellow paint. Her hair was barely tamed into a bun with stray wisps sticking out, and a green streak ran across her cheek.
Hello. You came about the ad?
Yes. I was told you mend
Come in, come in. Im Helen. Mind the easel, dont trip.
I stepped inside and froze just a moment.
It took me back a rambling flat, canvases everywhere. Some blank, others half-finished, several covered in layer upon layer of colour. Pots of brushes on the window ledge, tubes scattered on the floor, a newspaper walked over in painty footprints. On the sofa lounged an enormous ginger cat, regarding me as if I were nothing.
The place smelled of paint, linseed oil, coffee, and something else maybe just life.
Sorry for the mess, Helen said, Was working all morning, didnt get round to clearing up.
Thats fine, I replied, and realised with surprise I meant it.
So, what needs mending?
A record player. Old Pye model. Motor wont turn. Had a look inside myself, but
Oh, a Pye! I know those. Did the battery leak? Sometimes the contacts get corroded.
I checked. Its deeper inside.
Helen nodded thoughtfully.
Did you bring it?
No, just wanted to check first your phone wasnt picking up.
Oh, I never know where my phone is. Found it under the sofa yesterday. Bring it round, well see. But while youre here, could you help me first? Ill sort the record player with a discount for you, deal?
***
The easel was in her living room, by the window. Old, solid, but wobbly. The bolt for the canvas holder had gone; shed replaced it with the wrong size screw.
See there? She pointed at the joint. Screws too small. Keeps sliding.
I got down to look. Asked for a screwdriver. Helen brought three different kinds. I picked the right one, removed the screw, wrapped the joint with tape to pad it out, wedged it back. The easel stood firm.
That should hold for now, I said. But you want a six mil bolt with a proper nut, easy to find at the hardware shop.
Six mil, right. Helen grabbed a brush, dipped it into black paint, and scrawled M6 bolt + nut!! onto the newspaper at her feet.
I laughed. Just for the joy of it, unexpectedly.
Youll forget when you throw the paper away.
Ill stick it on my fridge. Fancy a cup of tea? Ive still got some cabbage pasties from yesterday.
I meant to say I ought to go, there were things needing me at home, Susan
Id love some, I said.
***
We sat in her small kitchen, window overlooking the worn-out back garden. Pots lined the sill, something green sprouting in each. The pasties piled higgledy-piggledy on an old plate not a napkin in sight.
I picked up a pasty. Old, a bit sticky on top, but incredibly good. The cabbage was mixed with egg and onion, just like my mum used to make.
These are nice, I said.
Really? Never was much of a baker. My daughter taught me before she went off to university art history in York. Shes twenty-two now, grown up and sensible, not like me.
You lived here long?
About twenty-five years. Used to live here with my husband, split last year. Now its just me and Monty thats the cat.
At the sound of his name, Monty looked over from the sofa, blinked, and went back to sleep.
Were you upset?
About the divorce? Of course. Then you know that feeling when youve had shoes that pinch for years, and then you take them off and realise how badly they hurt, but youd grown used to it? Like that.
Out the window, a big old tree stood, nearly bare now, just a clutch of yellow leaves hanging on.
Youre an engineer? Helen asked.
Yes. At Battersea Components.
Interesting work?
Just a job. Though you know, I used to love fiddling about with mechanical things. Not at work, just for myself. Used to go fishing too.
You did? Tell me.
I was surprised. Usually, people change the subject when I mentioned fishing. Susan always said, Whats there to say? You just sit and wait. But Helen truly wanted to know.
I used to go every summer as a lad. Dad took me. Wed set off in the dark, and itd be dawn by the time we got there. I remember that calm, the smell of the water, the quiet you could hear the fish breaking the surface against the reeds.
Helen cupped her cheek in her palm and listened.
In my twenties, I went with my mate Colin. Once hooked a tench so big, we thought it was a log at first
I rambled on, and only looking at my watch did I realise two and a half hours had passed. Nearly nine at night.
Blimey, I jumped up, Ive got to get going.
Of course. Thanks for fixing the easel. And for the fishing stories.
The fishing stories?
Just for telling them. I can almost see the water.
On my way to the Tube, I wondered when was the last time anyone just listened to me, like that?
***
Susan sat in the kitchen when I came home. The dinner was cold, covered with another plate. She wore the look that meant a long talk was coming.
Where have you been?
I went to see someone about that record player. Shes an artist, needed help fixing an easel. I lost track of time.
You shouldve called.
I didnt think Id be so long.
I waited for you at seven. Made pork chops. Now theyre ruined I warmed them up twice, theyre bone dry.
I looked at the plate, then at her.
Sorry about the pork.
Its not about the pork! We have an agreement. You go out, you let me know. Its simple respect.
I know, I know. I wasnt thinking.
You never think! Thats it, Mark. You never think about this house or me. Remember last Tuesday, when I asked for low-fat spread, and you got the regular full-fat? I had to chuck it out.
I took my coat off, hung it up. My hands were steady, but something inside was winding up tight.
I ate at hers. She made pasties.
Pasties.
Yes.
Mark, you went for a broken record player and came home at nine, stuffed with someone elses pasties. Listen to yourself.
I helped someone with their easel and had a cuppa. Shes an artist, lives alone, just needed some help.
Who is she?
Her names Helen. Mid-fifties, teaches art in the community centre, divorced last year.
Youve got her life story now.
We chatted over tea, Susan. Thats all.
Susan stood up, put the pork in the fridge. Her movements were sharp, precise.
Heat it up yourself if you want. Im off to bed.
She left the kitchen. I sat there in silence. It had started raining outside. I watched it fall, thinking: the rain never sticks to any schedule.
***
It happened again. I brought in the Pye player. Helen took a look, said shed need a couple of days. I went back then, it was working, shed asked her mate, an actual repairman. We drank tea. This time, I brought a cherry pie from the bakery.
Next time I dropped in just to check if shed found the right M6 bolt. Shed got M4 instead, mixed up the sizes. I laughed, she laughed. Id brought both types myself, just in case, and fixed her easel properly.
I stopped telling Susan the details about these visits. Sometimes Id say going to the artists studio, but not much more. Maybe Susan didnt want to know. Maybe she just needed to know Id be home for dinner.
One evening I came back late again. Helen and I had been looking at her book of Cézannes paintings she explained something about how he painted light, and I realised Id never thought about it before. It was oddly fascinating.
Susan was waiting.
Pork chops
Susan, listen
She looked at me. I saw something new not anger, but worry. Real, human worry.
Mark, whats going on?
Nothings going on. I see a friend, we talk, I help with odd jobs. I enjoy being there.
Do you hear yourself?
Yes. Theres nothing nothing between us, if thats what you mean. We just talk.
Just talk.
Yes.
Mark, weve been married thirty years. I run this house, cook, keep track of your blood pressure, our money, Im chief accountant for St. Georges Estates. I do everything for both of us.
I know, Susan.
So why do you go to some artist instead of being here?
I couldnt answer. Or I could, but not in a way that didnt sound cruel.
***
I left on Friday evening. Packed a bag: couple of shirts, razor, a book Id been meaning to reread. Susan stood in the bedroom doorway, silent, watching me.
Where are you going?
I need to be on my own. To think.
Mark, dont be ridiculous.
Maybe I am. But Im going.
To her?
Im going to think.
Mark!
I zipped my case. Turned to her. She was standing there in her robe, hands folded, back straight, completely thrown.
Ill phone you, I said.
And left.
***
Helen didnt ask questions. When I rang to ask if I could stay a few days, she said, Of course, the sofas free, come over. Thats all.
I slept on her sofa. Monty came in at night to curl up at my feet. In the mornings, Helen made coffee, strong and sometimes spiced with just a bit too much cardamom. We sat by the window, listened to the radio, talked about the weather, or about Montys strange habits, or about nothing much at all.
Susan called. Often at first, then less so. I didnt always answer. When I did, she said:
Have you taken your blood pressure tablets? Have you got them?
Yes, Susan.
Did you take your warm jacket? They said itd drop below zero tonight.
Took it.
Youve got the GP appointment the day after tomorrow at four. You promisedyou wont forget?
I know.
Mark, dont you want to come home? What is it youre missing there?
I paused a moment.
Ill call you, Susan.
Then I got an urgent text from her friend Jenny: Mark, for heavens sake Susans a wreck. Then my boss called: Mark, your wife called everything alright? And then one from her cousin Pete, who I only ever saw over Christmas.
She was rallying her allies, like always. If things slipped, she pulled everyone in to sort it out. Only this time, I was the thing to be sorted.
How are you? Helen asked one evening.
It feels strange, I admitted. Bit scary. I got up this morning and realisedI just pulled on whatever shirt I liked. Not the white one Susan would have picked out for me. The navy one. I cant remember the last time I chose for myself.
She picked your clothes?
Shed lay them out the night before. Said otherwise Id dress wrong for the weather, or clash colours. I just got used to it.
Helen was silent.
She loves me, I said. I know she does. As best she can.
I believe you.
But I vanished, Helen. Somewhere along the way, I just stopped being myself. Became a box in her timetable.
***
Susan arrived on Sunday. She found the address, somehowphone records probably; shed always been resourceful. I answered the door and, for a moment, we just looked at each other.
May I come in? she asked.
I stepped aside.
She looked around the hall. I saw something pass over her facenot disgust, but close. Helens old boots by the door, one toppled over, her colourful scarf on the rack, a paint-splattered jacket. The corner of a canvas visible from the living room.
Helen came out of the kitchen. She and Susan exchanged greetings in the quietest, most formal tones.
Susan turned to me.
Are you alright?
Im fine.
Are you taking your tablets?
Susan
Im just asking.
At that moment, I was slicing cucumber for salad. Wonky slices, all angles. Susan sucked in her breath. She always made perfectly even cuts.
Susan, I said, you shouldnt have come.
Mark, Ive given my whole life to you, her voice shook. I took care of you, thirty years. Cant you see everything I did, I did for you?
I know.
Then why?
From the kitchen, Helen quietly said, Susan, can I say something? Not as an enemy, just as an outside observer.
Go on, Susan said without looking round.
Caring is when the other person feels looked after. When you can breathe easily together. If someone cant breathe next to you, its not really care. You werent letting him breathe, Susan.
Susan was silent a long while.
You dont know our life.
No, I dont, said Helen.
I went over to Susan and took her hand. She didnt pull away.
Susan, Im filing for divorce. Ive decided. Not because I never loved you. I just cant live like this anymore.
Susan stared at our joined hands, then quietly let go. She turned, collected her handbag. Her back was ramrod straight, her walk measured as ever.
Dont forget your pills, she said, her voice steady. Theyre in the blue box, top right cupboard.
She closed the door behind her.
***
The divorce took six months. She got the house. I didnt argue. I rented a bedsit near Balham, same street as Helen. Strange and awkward, but thats how it worked out.
Life rebuilt itself, slow as renovating an old house one wall at a time.
For months, I did odd little things. Like, at the shop, buying whatever bread I fancied, not the right sort. Sometimes ate standing at the fridge. Went to bed at eleven or even after midnight, just because I could. Watched an old movie on TV till 1am and felt the giddy freedom of a ten-year-old sneaking biscuits.
With Helen, it was good, but not always easy. We both knew we liked each other, but we didnt rush. As if we recognised, because it mattered, we had to go slowly.
In the spring, I went fishing again.
I borrowed some kit. We drove there in Helens ancient red Mini, which coughed and spluttered its way to a little lake near Epsom. Helend never fished in her life and said so.
We sat by the water. The morning was cold and the grass wet, and turning out the rucksack I realised Id left the flask behind.
BlastI forgot the thermos.
Never mind, Helen smiled, just look at that mist on the water.
There was a white haze lying low like breath. The sun was rising, light horizontal and pink.
Beautiful, isnt it? Helen whispered.
Yeah. It really is.
I pulled in a perchsmall but lively. Helen squeaked and insisted I let it go, which I did.
We came home with no catch, both filthy after I slipped in the clay and pulled Helen in with me. We laughed ourselves hoarse and startled every duck on the lake.
My jacket was ruined.
Oh, who cares, Helen said, what a morning, eh?
I looked at her muddied sleeve, her grinning face, stray hair escaping from her beanie. And thought: this this is living. Not a schedule, not a plan. Just muddy jackets and sunrise.
***
We married one autumn, a year and a half after I left. A little do Colin came from work, Helens mate Irene took photos, and Monty sat on the window, ignoring everyone.
Life with Helen was lively and a bit mad. She might spend half our budget on paints and forget to buy milk. I dismantled an old Roberts radio all over the kitchen. She lost her keys every few days. I sometimes left tools temporarily in bizarre placesshe once found a spanner in the freezer. No idea how it got there.
We argued. Sometimes properly, about bills, her habit of leaving brushes to dry out and ruin, my habit of dumping stuff everywhere. But afterwards, no one kept score, no one listed each others failings. Someone would make tea, a sign to let it go, and we were ourselves again.
***
Susan heard about the wedding via Jenny who always seemed to know everyones business.
For a while after I left, Susan functioned on autopilot. The flat stayed spotless, dinner was on time, she went to work, filed reports, took calls.
But in the evenings, the flat was too quiet. Too big. Shed sit with a mug of tea and notice, with a start, shed set out two mugs from habit. Shed remove one. That hurt, unexpectedly.
One evening, her manager Sarah stopped her after a meeting.
Susan, are you alright?
Im fine.
You havent been yourself for months. Whats wrong?
Personal matters.
Your husband left?
Susan just looked at her.
I guessed. Ive been through it myself. Can I offer you some advice? Dont start with a spring clean of the house. Start with your feelings. Go talk to someone. Not a frienda professional.
Susan wanted to snap she didnt need help. But she said nothing.
***
She found a counsellor online. A woman in her forties, with an office in Clapham North. For three sessions Susan mostly sat in silence, giving short answers, as if being asked to undress for a stranger.
At the fourth, the counsellor asked:
Susan, when have you truly been frightened? Not for your husband. For you?
Susan thought for a long time.
When he packed his bag. When I realised he was going and I couldnt stop him. That I had no control.
And why was it so important to control things?
Long silence. It snowed outside. The kind of snow that never settles in London.
Because otherwise everything falls apart. My mum always said, Susan, you have to hold things together. Otherwise, men will just leave. Thats how she lived. Dad left, mind you. But she never let go.
Silence in the office was gentle, unlike at home.
So you spent your life worrying that if you ever let go, youd lose everything?
Yes.
And what did you realise?
That if you grip too tight, you lose it anyway.
Speaking those words hurt. But afterwards, she felt a kind of release.
***
Jenny suggested Susan visit the local art centre. Go to the watercolour exhibition, the paintings are lovely, the people are kind. Susan went because it was Sunday, the flat felt like a prison, and she needed out.
The exhibition really was lovely. She never knew much about art, but liked the transparency, the lightness, how loose brushstrokes let the paper shine through.
She was gazing at a painting of a river when a man about her own age joined her. Warm face, friendly if a bit distracted. He was studying the same painting.
Isnt it fascinating he murmured, more to himself, the way the artist left that corner bare. See there? Its just blank paper. But thats what makes it.
She looked. She hadnt noticed.
Im Andrew, he said.
Susan.
He was awkward. When they left, he caught his jacket zip on the door handle, twisted himself up in the pull, and after a few failed attempts admitted defeat.
Let me, Susan said without thinking.
She teased the teeth of the zip into place, ran it up, and smiled.
Thank you, he said, as if shed saved the day. Ive been battling with that zip for weeks.
You need a new jacket.
I know. I just hate shopping.
They chatted outside a little more. He taught guitar at the same art centre, and said he went to most exhibitions.
Ill be here next Sunday, he said. If youre about, Id love to see you.
She didnt promise. But next Sunday, she went.
***
With Andrew, it was different. He was a widower; his wife had died three years before. He lived alone, drank endless tea, played guitar in the evenings, never quite sure which day it was, and could spend ages talking about small things: why ash trees grow better here, or what makes a tune stick in your head.
Susan started out wanting to organise him. Advised him to get a diary, pointed out his fridge was a mess, once began to rearrange the kitchen cupboards.
He gently took her hand.
Susan, I like things how they are.
She looked at the shelves, then at Andrews hand over hers. He wasnt angry, and didnt explain at her like Mark did in the end. He just held her hand and looked at her warmly.
Sorry, she said, sheepish. Silly habit.
Not silly. Just not my kitchen.
She grinned.
That stuck with her. Then she began to notice, fingers itching to meddle, correct. But she stopped herself. Not always, but more and more.
Her counsellor said once, You cant control another person. Only yourself. That can be more interesting, if you let it.
Susan thought about that a lot.
She also started baking. It was odd, because shed always stuck exactly to recipes. Once, Jenny gave her an apple cake recipe, and the last line said, add cinnamon to taste. To taste. Susan stood there, puzzled at what that meant.
She tipped in cinnamon. Too much, maybe. The cake came out dark and cracked, but the smell was so good she ate half of it hot, straight from the tin.
Youre baking? Jenny asked, amazed.
Learning, Susan smiled. It doesnt always work out. But its fun.
Jenny looked at her.
Youve changed, Susan.
Maybe so.
For the better.
Susan didnt reply, but later, walking home, she caught herself smiling, for no reason at all, at a damp autumn street.
***
Two years on, we bumped into each other by chance in Battersea Park. I was with Helen, heading down to the river; Susan was on a bench with a book, waiting for Andrew whod gone to fetch coffee.
She saw me first. I was in that navy shirtthe one she glimpsed once, way back. Helen, in a long coat and scarf, was chatting and laughing. I closed the book.
I saw her and stopped. For a second, we just looked at each other. Then I went over.
Susan. Hi.
Hello, Mark.
Helen waited a little distance away, pretending to study a plane tree.
You look well, I saidand genuinely meant it. She did look softer somehow.
So do you.
We were quiet. Autumn again; leaves everywhere.
How are you? she asked.
Im good. Helen and I are heading off next monthdriving south, no plans, just seeing what we find.
Where?
We dont know, I chuckled, thats the point.
She nodded. Then noticed Helen, examining a tree with apparent interest.
And you? I asked.
Im well. Learning to bake cakes. She gave a little laugh. Ridiculous, really.
It isnt.
Doesnt always work. Last time, I put in too much bicarb, the cake split and mushroomed. But we ate it.
Thats great.
Andrew and Ihes a teacher, a bit scatter-brained She stopped. Im learning not to fix everything.
I looked at her.
That cant be easy.
It isnt, she admitted. But its interesting.
Andrew strutted up, waving two lattes and a paper bag with something poking out the top.
Susan! I got both kindspoppy and cinnamonwasnt sure which you wanted!
She burst out laughing. Open, happy.
I watched her.
Youre laughing, I said.
I am, she agreed. And was genuinely surprised herself.
Helen came over.
Well go, she said kindly. Didnt want to intrude.
Its fine, Susan replied. And she meant it.
We all said goodbye no awkwardness, no sharp edges, no unfinished business. I gave a nod, she smiled a little; Helen waved in her warm fashion.
Susan sat and watched us till we disappeared down the avenue, Helen leaning in, saying something; me laughing out loud for no good reason.
Andrew handed her both buns.
Go on, pick whichever you want.
She took the cinnamon one, bit in. It was warm and flaky.
Leaves rustled overhead. Somewhere, children were shouting. Clouds moved above, slow and aimless.
Susan sat, eating her bun, thinking: I could have lived my whole life never knowing what it was to love, not just to organise. And Id never have known, if he hadnt left.
Andrew settled in beside her, rummaged in his bag and offered the poppy-seed bunhe didnt like poppy seeds.
Want this? he asked sheepishly.
She took it from him.
I do.
***
Looking back, I realise this: Sometimes, you have to let go of control to find your own warmth. And the freedom to laugh againoften, thats worth the whole world.
