As she kneels amongst the shattered plant-pots, cradling his grizzled head in her hands, she realises she can’t remember when they last touched each other.
Distant sirens herald the approaching ambulance.
“Hang on, Joseph.”
Later, much later, she climbs into his bed in the room next to hers, wondering when they opted for separate beds, then separate rooms. She pulls his quilt around her, inhaling his familiar muskiness, wondering whether he was ever lonely in here.
Would he have said?
She’s puzzled that she doesn’t know.
And wonders whether she may be given a chance to find out.
This week’s picture from J R Hardy reminded me of a conservatory. It also reminded me of Stephen King’s Dome, but I decided not to go there. Thanks to Rochelle for her leadership of Friday Fictioneers.