Not a Wife Anymore
“Dave, hey, Dave, did you check your blood pressure today? Taken your pill yet?” Linda peered into the lounge, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Linda, quit fussing about my blood pressure!” he grumbled, eyes fixed on his phone. “Ive got a meeting in an hour. Wheres my blue cotton shirt? The one I like? Did you iron it?”
“I ironed you three shirts yesterday, you said yourself that the blue one needed to go to the dry cleaner because of that stain”
“You always get things muddled, dont you! Cant trust you with anything. Fine, just give me whatever. And make the tea strong, none of that chamomile business, Im so fed up with it.”
Lindas shoulders tensed, but she didnt say a word. She just walked back to the kitchen.
Outside the window, November was its usual wet and grey self. The block of flats opposite was peppered with identical dark windows; only a couple were lit up. Linda Margaret Williams, fifty-six, stood at the hob waiting for the ancient kettlechipped around the spoutto boil. Shed meant to replace it in the spring. She never got around to it.
She put strong tea in his mugno chamomile, no mint. She got the sandwiches shed made at six in the morning: bread, butter, a bit of cheese, crusts cut off so his stomach wouldnt complain. Sliced up some tomatoes too, even though November tomatoes taste like cardboard, but at least theyve got vitamins. She piled everything on a tray and brought it into the living room.
David John Williams, fifty-eight, sat in his armchair, glued to his phone. Three months ago, he became department head; before that, hed been just an engineer, same as hed been for the last twenty years. Then Mr. Simmonds retired, and Dave, the longest-standing in the department, was given the job. The new role brought an extra £120 a month, his own office, and apparently, an entirely new way to look at himself and the world.
“Put it there,” he nodded towards the coffee table, not looking up.
Linda put down the tray, hesitated.
“Dave, honestly, please take your pill. You said your head was hurting last night.”
“I said it was hurting last night, not today. Im fine. Leave it, Ive got calls to make.”
She left. She stood by the coats in the hallway: his overcoat, her old quilted jacket, and an umbrella with a broken spoke on the peg. She paused, staring into the middle distance. Then grabbed a cloth and went back to dusting the kitchen windowsill because she had no idea what else to do with herself.
It had been like this for about three weeks now, ever since that promotion and that work retreat in Surrey that Dave came back from changed. He was tidier, got a fancy new haircut, and something in his face looked differentmore superior. Linda was happy at first. Thought, well, good for him, hes come alive again. But soon she started noticing things.
He started criticising food. Before, hed eat what she made, no fuss. Now, suddenly, the stew was too salty, the chicken was dry, and the beans-and-toast was a “students dinner, not for a manager.” She asked if shed heard right, and he looked at her as if shed said something daft and replied:
“Linda, its time you cooked something decent. A nice roast, proper salads, not that coronation chicken you make once a year.”
So, she made roast dinners. Salads too. He ate in silence, and she thought things were fine. Next day, he came home grumpy and shared how his new mate from the retreat, Edward, had a wife who “doesnt work, takes care of the house, and actually looks the part.
Linda didnt argue. What was there to say? She hadnt worked for four years, ever since her accounts job was made redundant. She got up at six, went to bed later than him, ran the house, picked up his prescriptions, queued at the pharmacy for his statins and blood pressure meds, made sure he took them, arranged his winter tyres with the garagesince he was “busy.” She could have listed it all. But she held her tongue. She was used to it.
Then, two days ago, something happened that ended her silence.
Hed come home around eight. Linda was taking soup off the hob, a chicken broth, made light for his cholesterol. Took her two hours. The kitchen smelled of parsley and carrots.
“What took you so long?” she called.
“Got held up,” he replied, kicking off his shoes right by the door, not on the rack.
“Soup’s ready. Dinner time.”
He came into the kitchen, peered in the pot, grimaced.
“Chicken again.”
“Doctors orders, Dave, your cholesterol”
“I know about my cholesterol. Im not a child. Just sick of hospital food at home.”
She ladled out soup, cut up bread. He ate, left his bowl, went to the living room. She washed up, wiped the hob, swept the crumbs. Then went in to tell him there was fruit compote if he fancied it.
He was in his chair, scrolling on his phone. She caught a flash of something pink, but he turned the phone.
“Do you want some compote, Dave?”
He stared at her for a while, as if weighing things.
“No,” he said. Then, after a pause: “Linda, look at yourself.”
She didnt get it at first.
“What?”
“I said, look at yourself. Whens the last time you went to the hairdresser? Your hairs looking sad. And that checkered dressing gownhonestly, you look like an old biddy from the sticks.”
The kitchen tap dripped. The neighbours TV mumbled through the wall.
“Dave,” she said, softly.
“What, Dave? Im just being honest. I have work events to go to, meetings. People come roundthe wifes supposed to look presentable, but you I mean, honestly.”
“People come here?” she asked, slowly. “You havent invited anyone in the last three months.”
“Yeah, well, its embarrassing!” His voice rose, that word “embarrassing” dropped through the silence like a brick. “Edwards wifes a delight. Polished. Stylish. You, on the other hand youve let yourself go: that dressing gown, undyed hair”
“David.” She used his full name, which was rare. “Youre nearly sixty. Im fifty-six. Were not spring chickens.”
“All the more reason to look after yourself! I’m at the gym now, keeping fit. You spend all day at home and cant even”
“All day at home,” she repeated. Her voice was eerily calm, and she surprised herself. “Alright, Dave. I get it.”
She left the room, shut the door softly. In the kitchen, she put away the bread, turned off the oven light. Each movement was methodical, automatic. But something inside had shifted. Not shatterednot collapsedjust shifted, like moving heavy furniture and suddenly thinking: this is overdue.
She didnt sleep that night. Lay on her side, staring at the ceiling while he dozed off as always. She listened to him breathing and thought.
Thought about the last ten years, living in service mode: getting up, cooking, laundry, tidying, collecting pills, booking GP visits, getting cabs to the surgery because there was no car anymore (they sold it three years ago, his blood pressure meant he couldnt drive). Watched over his tabletsramipril for blood pressure, simvastatin for cholesterol, and a fancy joint supplement in spring, nearly thirty pounds a pack. Kept a notebook, never let the supply run out, the GP had said: missing doses is bad.
Now hed told her he was embarrassed by her. That she looked like a yokel. That Edwards wife was better.
Linda lay there until one in the morning and arrived at something simple and clear: Enough.
Not “Ill leave,” not “Ill get a divorce,” not “Ill start a row.” Just: enough of doing things he doesn’t see or value. Enough of being a utility, like the tapturn it, take, turn off again. He can do things himself now.
Next morning, she got up at six, as usual. Made herself chamomile tea, the one he hated. Sat with her mug and phone, checked out the fancy hairdresser near the shopping centrethe one shed never dared, fifteen quid for a cut. She booked for Wednesday. Also found free walking groups in the park for “Nordic walking,” Tuesday and Thursday mornings, and put reminders on her phone.
When Dave came into the kitchen at seven, there was only his mug out. Bread was in the bin, butter in the fridge. Hed have to sort himself out.
“What about breakfast?” he asked, glancing around.
“Theres bread there, butter, cheese in the fridge,” Linda replied, focused on her phone.
He hesitated. Made his tea, sliced bread, ate standing at the fridge. Left for work without a word.
Linda watched the door close behind him and felt something close to relief.
Wednesday, she went to the hairdresser. The stylista young woman with an undercut and about ten earringsinspected her hair.
“Not dyed in a while?”
“Three years,” Linda admitted. “Didnt get around to it.”
“Youve grown it really well. Lets do subtle highlights, blend it in gently. Tidy up the shape too.”
She sat there over two hours, watching her transformation in the mirror. She didnt look youngshe wasnt kidding herselfbut she looked alive. Like herself, the self she hadnt seen in forever.
She spent forty-five pounds. Then, in the shops, bought herself face creamnot the cheapish pharmacy one, but a proper one for “mature skin,” fifteen pounds. She stood there, considering if fifteen was too much, then remembered Edwards wife and bought it.
Dave noticed. He clocked her new hair that evening, said nothing.
She hadnt expected him to.
Next week, his pills ran out. Linda, who once kept an eagle eye on his medication, now simply left the empty box on his bedside table. He came home, walked past it, said nothing. She didnt remind him.
Next day, he rummaged and found the empty.
“Linda! Out of pills!”
“I know,” she called from the kitchen.
“Well, why havent you bought any?”
“Youre a grown man, Dave. You can get them yourself.”
Silence. A long, awkward silence.
“Ive got work.”
“I have things to do, too.”
She didnt explain whatyet she did have her own things: joining the park walks Tuesday and Thursday, where she befriended two ladies, Jean and Pam. Jean was an assistant headteacher with a laugh so big the pigeons would scatter; Pam was quiet, retired, minded the grandchildren. They walked, chatted and, Linda realised for the first time in years, she actually enjoyed herself.
Dave bought his own pills in the end, returning from Boots as if hed completed an expedition. Slammed the box on his table. Said nothing, she said nothing back.
She rang up her old friend, Sue Carter, from her accounts office days.
“Sue, you free Saturday?”
“Why? Whats up?”
“Oh, lets go outmaybe a film or just café and cake.”
“Linda, are you alright?” Sue was wary; they hadnt hit a café in at least four years.
“Better than usual,” Linda said.
Saturday, they met at the tube station. Sue clocked the new hair at once and gasped: “Linda! Thats gorgeous!”
“Finally went to the hairdresser,” Linda grinned.
“About time! I was wondering when youd”
“Well, nows as good a time as any,” laughed Linda, and off they went.
They had lattes and cake by the window while fat, dreamy flakes of the first real snow fell, melting as they hit the pavement.
“Tell me everything,” Sue said.
And Linda did: about the promotion, the retreat, the changed tone, the “over-salted stew,” the “Edwards wife” business, the look in the mirror and feeling “embarrassing.” She spoke evenly, dry-eyed, almost like it was someone elses story.
Sue listened, stirring her latte.
“So, then what?”
“I just stopped doing things he doesnt appreciate. Not out of spite. Just why bother?”
“Why bother,” Sue repeated, nodding. “Youre absolutely right.”
“I dunno if its right or not; I just cant do it anymore.”
Sue nodded again, broke off a bit of cake.
“Sohas he noticed?”
“That I dont do his pills? Yep. That I dont iron his shirts every day? Yep. Yesterday he pulled out a creased one, put it on and left in a strop.”
“And? Big row?”
“Nope.” Linda shrugged. “He doesnt seem to know what to say. Hes so used to me saying nothing about anything. Now Im still quiet, but its a different kind of quiet.”
Sue looked at her closely.
“Have you thought about divorce?”
“Yeah. Not yet, though. First, Ive got to figure out who I am, without all that. Without his meds, his stew, his shirts I havent seen myself in years.”
They stayed longer, got more coffee. Left when it was dark, hugging by the tube. Sue said, “Call me, and lets do this next Saturday, yeah?”
“Absolutely,” Linda agreed.
As she travelled home, Linda realised she hadnt sat with Sue like this in sixmaybe moreyears. There was always something else, Daves health, Daves stew.
He was sat at the telly when she got in. The kitchen held his dirty mug and a plate from egg and toast hed made for himself. She glanced at it. Normally shed have washed it instantly. Nowshe left it.
“Whereve you been?” he called, eyes still on the TV.
“Met Sue.”
“Long time, wasnt it?”
“Yep.”
She went to wash her face, used her new cream, looked at herself in the mirror. Fifty-six, lines at the eyes and mouth, but a face that was alive. The highlights suited her. She didnt look young, but so what.
Cold weather rolled in with December. Linda bought herself new boots, real leather, not the cheap rubbery ones she’d worn the past few winters. Spent £90 and didnt regret it at all.
Something was changing in the flatsubtle, but real. She still cooked, but not just his diet food: she made rich stew for herself, proper roasts, or sometimes simply ready-made pies, because why not? No more steamed turkey just for him. The doctors told him enoughlet him look after himself.
His shirts went in with the rest of the wash, no special delicate cycle. Once, every shirt got extra care, handwash, no longer.
He noticed everything. Said nothing. Occasionally snapped:
“Pies again?”
“Yeah. Pies,” shed reply, matter-of-fact.
“Not cooking anymore, are you?”
“Made soup yesterday. Did a casserole last Sunday.”
He’d grumble and leaveat a loss for words. He couldnt just blurt, “Why arent you doing everything for me anymore?” It would sound too raw, even for him.
Linda carried on: joined the walking twice a week, got to know Jean, who had a suggestion for a brilliant womens health doctor. Linda, whod put it off for years, finally went. Signed up for a free watercolour class at the library on Wednesdays. She wasnt dreaming of paintingmore so, why not? Two hours where she didnt have to be anywhere, think about anything but paper and paint.
Mid-December, Dave started staying late after work. Once, it would have worried herphone calls, dinner getting cold. Now, she just ate when she felt like, went to bed when she wanted. Sometimes he crept in at half-past eleven. She never asked; he never volunteered.
She didn’t work it out from his phone, just from one day, coming home, he smelled odda strong, sickly perfume, not office, not restaurant. In the hall, she noticed. Well, that explained it.
Oddly, it didnt hurt. She was surprised. It was something elsean odd, tired curiosity, then relief: if he left now, itd be his choice, not her defeat.
She said nothing. Slept well.
About three weeks this went on. He went to work, stayed out, sometimes took calls in the bathroom. Once, through the door, she heard, “…well, I told you, Emily, Saturday…” Emily. Fair enough.
Those weeks, Linda thought a lot. Thirty-two years with Dave, raised their son Markhe now lived in Manchester with his wife and two kids. Back when Dave was young, hed been fun, cracked a joke, took Mark fishing. Linda couldnt pinpoint when hed changedit was gradual, like water seeping into a cellar.
She thought about herself, too. How shed spent so much time caring for him that shed forgotten to care for herselfnot just looks, but the inside stuff. She didnt know what music she liked, what books, even where shed visit if she could. All smothered by years of stew and tablets.
The watercolour classes, unexpectedly, were vital. Shed sit in the quiet library, the teacherMrs. Maynard, fifty-twoshowing how to blend washes. Linda painted an apple and realised she’d not painted since she was a child. It was fineeven beautiful, with a green blending into yellow.
One day in January, Mrs. Maynard said, “Youve a real knack for colour, Linda, honestly.” Just a side comment, but it meant the worldDave hadnt said anything like that for years.
By early January, Emily had disappeared. Linda figured it out when Daves routine returned: home at seven, in front of the telly, no more calls from the bathroom. He looked gaunt, coughed more.
She made souphe ate it, and left without a word. One evening, while she finished her tea, he sat beside her and murmured into the air:
“Cold out tonight.”
“Yes,” she replied. “Minus five, apparently.”
“Yeah.”
And then he left. That was it.
Only later did she learn from a friend what happened with Emily. A call from Rob at the cricket club: “Heard Daves fling with that young one fizzled? Didnt last.” Linda just answered, “Heard that too.” Rob laughed and changed the subject.
She guessed the girl expected a well-off manager, wine bars, excitementinstead got a fifty-eight-year-old with pills and a craving for properly brewed tea and starched shirts. And endless tales about his cholesterol. No wonder she bailed fast.
Linda felt no pity. She was just relievedthe feeling when a tooth stops aching at last. Just better.
In February Daves health went downhill. He couldnt maintain the complex pill routinesometimes forgot, sometimes doubled up. She saw the boxes lying any old way, the order lost. Once, she caught him taking two at once because hed forgotten the day before. She didnt comment; the GP had told him, after all.
His blood pressure crept up, his face paled, hed get dizzy, complain of buzzing in his ears, sleep poorly.
“Feel dizzy this morning,” he said one day.
“Go see the doctor,” she replied.
“Well, can you book it for me?”
“Ring the surgery yourselfthe NHS numbers on your health card.”
He looked at her, uncertain. She sipped her tea.
“I cant remember how to do it.”
“Dave, youre a clever man. Head of Department. Youll figure it out.”
He did book himself, in the end. Brought back a new prescription. New medicine added to the pile.
“Here,” he said, dropping the paper on the kitchen table.
“Okay,” she said.
“You going to get it?”
“Im going past Boots tomorrow, so yes. Give me the money.”
He blinked. Before, shed have bought them out of the housekeeping money, kept it all in hand. But nowwell.
He handed her the cash. She fetched the pills, put them down with the rest. No lists or schedules. Just left them for him.
March brought a thaw. Snow melted into dirty puddles, dripping from the roof. Linda started going out for walks just becausewithout the walking poles, simply for herself. She bought a spring coat, not a dreary one, but a proper pale beige number, belted. Standing at the shop mirror, she realised itd been years since shed bought something for herself without necessity.
That March, their son Mark came to stay for a few days with his wife, Sarah. Mark was tall, forty, like his father when he was young but gentler. Sarah was calm, a good woman. They brought honey and a box of biscuits.
That first evening, everyone gathered for tea: roast potatoes, mackerel pâté, homemade jelly just like her mum used to make. Dave said little. Mark chatted about work, Sarah asked about Lindas painting group.
“Youre painting, Mum?” Mark was surprised.
“Learning watercolours,” she smiled.
“Thats brilliant. Show us?”
She pulled out her paintings: an apple, a vase of flowers, a cityscape from the library window. Mark looked carefully, Sarah said they were lovely.
“Mum, you look youngeryou really do.”
“Just finally got to the hairdressers,” joked Linda.
Mark kept glancing at his dad, who sat silent with his jelly. Something was clearly up, Mark sensed it, but didnt ask in front of Sarah.
The next day, while Sarah was out, Mark stayed home. Came to the kitchen where Linda was making pasties.
“Mum. Everything alright?”
“Why?”
“Well Dad seems off.”
“Just struggling a bit. Went to the doctor, got new tablets. He manages himself now.”
He was quiet, fiddled with a bit of dough.
“You two havent fallen out, have you?”
“No,” Linda saidand that was true. They hadnt so much fallen out as started living in parallel.
“Just say if you need”
“Im fine, Mark. Really. I am.”
He seemed to believe her. Because, oddly enough, she was.
They left on Sunday. The flat fell quiet. Linda washed up, wiped down the table, cleaned the hob. Dave watched telly.
Later that night, he came in for water, stood by the window.
“Marks looking good,” he said.
“He is, yes,” Linda agreed.
“And the kids” he trailed off.
“Yeah.”
He drank his water, set the glass down, left. Linda gazed out into the night, rain-washed streetlights, a rare late snow.
April began with Dave having a hypertensive crisis. Not dramatic enough for an ambulance, but he got up in the morning and nearly blacked out in the hall. He called Linda.
“Linda. Im not right.”
She came, saw him sitting on the floor, flushed, sweating.
“Come on, back to bed,” she said.
She helped him to bed, got the monitor. 185/110. Not good.
“Take your emergency pillthere, in the top drawer. Lie flat. Well check again in half an hour.”
“And you?”
“Ill be in the kitchen.”
She put the kettle on, waited. Heard him rummaging for pills. He improved after an hour160/95. Manageable.
“Stay in today,” she told him. “Nowhere to be rushing off to.”
“Ive work”
“Ring in sick. Youre staying home.”
He did. She brought him tea and crackersnot because he asked, just because. Theres a difference between “not wanting to care” and watching someone suffer.
He lay there, staring at the ceiling.
“Linda,” he said after a long silence.
“Yes?”
“I I know Ive been acting like an idiot these past months.”
She didnt answer right away. Sat on the edge of the bed.
“Yeah, Dave,” she said quietly. “Like an idiot.”
“Well the promotion. Went to my head a bit. Thought Id really made it.”
“And you did. Department Head.”
“Yeah. And you were well, still here oh, thats not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant,” she replied, softly.
She stood up, took his mug, walked back to the kitchen. No scene, no tears or grand speeches. He said hed been stupid; she agreed. That was enough.
April went, May arrived. Linda kept going to the park and the painting classes. Got closer to Jeanturned out Jean went to the theatre monthly and invited Linda along. They got tickets at the local dramathe good seats, stalls. Linda hadnt been to the theatre in over ten years. She sat with her orange juice and realised how nice it was to just sit there, watch real people live out made-up stories.
Fifty-six, and she was finally realising this wasnt the end at allbut a start.
She and Dave lived onside by side, parallel. He stopped moaning about food, stopped mentioning Edwards wife. Sometimes theyd talk, about home things. Sometimes in the evenings, theyd be in the same room: hed watch TV, shed read Jeans book recommendation. It was peaceful, almost familiar, but differentLinda no longer felt it was all her duty.
One time, Dave asked her to order his pills online.
“I cant do itdont know how. Can you?”
“Its simple enough,” she explained. “Type the name, add to basket, pick a chemist locally.”
“Youre better at it.”
“I am. You can be, too.”
He learnt. Sat for ages with the phone, called her once to ask which button. She showed him. He ordered them himself.
She realised that was important too: letting people do things for themselves. Before, she thought helping meant doing all of it. Now she saw, sometimes helping meant not doing.
In June, the heat came. She bought a new summer dress, floaty, with flowers. Looked at herself and thought, not badnot an old country granny. Just a woman with a nice dress.
She realised older couples manage in all kinds of ways: some in open war, some sweet as sugar, some indifferent. Her and Dave were a fourth kind: not war, not peace, not indifference. Just two people sharing a roof.
She didnt know where things would go. Sometimes she remembered Sues question about divorce. She hadnt tossed it awaybut she wasnt rushing either. First, she needed to know herself again.
The summer ambled by. Linda visited Mark in Manchester for two weeks, the first time in years shed gone away alone. Dave stayed homesaid he had work. She packed an embroidered cushion shed made for her granddaughter (picked up off YouTube), and set off.
Two weeks with Mark, Sarah, the kidsSam, six, and Molly, four. Those days were the best shed had in ages: walks with the kids, making porridge, bathing Molly, reading bedtime stories. It was a different sort of careone she wanted to give.
Mark would ask how she was, about home. She was honest: it wasnt easy, but it was okay. He nodded; didn’t pry or judge. Good boy, she thought.
She came home with a tan and a lightness in her chest. Dave met her at the door: “Back then.” Helped with her bags. A little thing, but more than usual.
August was stifling. Linda put a little fan in the bedroom, treated herself to a huge watermelon: half for herself, half for Dave. He ate it and, for the first time in ages, said thank you for the food.
Then, in September, as the mornings chilled and the poplar trees outside turned gold, it happenedjust as shed quietly expected.
Dave staggered home one Friday about eight. Grey-faced, moving carefully. Linda was at the kitchen table, reading.
“Linda,” he called from the doorway, “Im not right.”
“Whats wrong?”
“Blood pressure, probably. My headand my chest, it feels tight.”
She got up, looked him over.
“How long have you felt like this?”
“Since lunch. Thought itd wear off.”
“Taken your pill?”
“I took one at 3pm. Didnt really help.”
“Sit down.”
He sat at the table. She brought in the monitor: 190/115. Worse than April.
“Dave,” she said, “this is serious. You need an ambulance.”
“Oh, dont be silly, maybe if I just took another tablet”
“No. 190, pressure in your chestthats not tablet territory. You need a doctor.”
“Can can you call them?”
She paused. She stood there, monitor in hand, staring at him.
She could see it: the grey face, frightened eyes, hand on chest. She felt pityreal, genuine pity. He was unwell, frightenedthat was real.
But she saw the rest, too: how all year hed looked through her. How hed said things that didnt wash off. That he stopped seeing her as a person long before she stopped trying for him.
So she knew what she’d doand what she wouldn’t.
“Dave,” she said quietly. “You have a phone. You know the number.”
He stared back, lost.
“What?”
“Call the ambulance yourself. Dial 999. Give the address, say you have high blood pressure and chest pain. Theyll come.”
“Linda” There was something small and almost childish in his voice. “Arent you going to help me?”
“I have: I took your blood pressure and told you what to do. The rest is up to you.”
“But”
“Dave.” She set the monitor on the table. “You call them. Youre a grown man. Department head. Youll manage.”
She left the kitchen, walked to the living room, shut the door softly.
After a few minutes, his voice drifted through, quiet and shaky:
“Hello. Yes, ambulance please. Address”
She poured herself a cup of chamomile teabecause thats what she likes. Walked back through the kitchen, silent, past Dave as he spoke to the operator. He glanced up at her. She moved to the window, stared out at the night.
The courtyard was empty. The streetlight outside the block shone a yellow glow on the damp tarmac. The poplar leaves were almost all down, black from the rain. The bench was deserted.
He finished on the phone. Silence.
“Theyre on the way,” he said.
“Alright,” she replied.
“Will you come with meto the hospital?”
Turning from the window, she met his gaze. Grey face, clutching his chest, frightened eyes. She pitied himtruly. He was a sick, ageing man, afraid. There was nothing triumphant, nothing cruel in her.
“No, Dave,” she said softly. “I wont. Theyll take care of you.”
“Linda”
“The paramedics will sort you out. Thats their job.”
She picked up her tea, went to her room, gently closing the door. Sat by the window, watched the streether own window, her own poplar, far-off lights in the opposite block. She heard movement in the kitchen, then quiet. Then the dull thunk of the lift.
The ambulance arrived in twenty minutes. She heard him open the door, the purposeful steps of strangers in the hallway, voices”pressure,” “ECG,” “maybe the hospital.” He answered, voice guilty, like a boy.
Then:
“Is your wife home?”
His reply:
“Yes. But she shes not coming.”
Pause. A neutral, “Alright. Jacket on, lets get you checked.”
The door. The lift. Silence.
