Time is ticking on, so she shuffles for home

Out the outside she is floral, slow, and beige; a fan of CountryFile, church fetes and Viennese Whirls? She lugs her trolley, it is heavy on her arms; the pain pulls out the memories, little stabs on her nerves.

It's been almost a year now, but she still buys two pork chops. Double wrapped, of course. The butcher suspects nothing; his superficial concern lasts only a few moments- they talk about the weather, the litter on the high street and his niece's engagement: it's been so windy lately, the street's such a mess, and it's hard to believe the little girl is now so grown up. She says a polite goodbye, without the fretting. She managed to stop that months ago.

It's two potatoes in Marks and Spencers, and a bag of carrots too. Organic today, as she is feeling slightly under the weather - pesticides can surely only harm the fight against the common cold. Some English butter and a pint of milk; it's all so commonplace for her thin white curls. Who would ever probe normality for answers?

A polite exchange is even easier here, briefer and less personal. She is fine, thank-you madam. And no, she does not need a bag. The errand list is now depleted - the water bill has been paid, as has the gas, and the presents for the grandkids are bulging out from the tattered tartan trolley, drizzle seeping in and softening the cardboard packaging. It's a Lego set with an outer-space theme for Sam, and some Seamonkeys for Jamie. Creativity and homemade science respectively - that's what nine year olds like, right? She'll take them round on Monday, before they go to Cub scouts. They don't come to the house anymore, she told them not to. And she hates surprises.

She has also bought his favorite tea, some new slippers, and a copy of the The Racing Post. But there is no need for suspicion, panic or bother - these things could be for anyone; the elderly stick together, don't they? A Favor for a favor, an offer of a helping hand. She feels safe with this, it softens any hesitance about what she does.

They rush past her in the street and take no care, fresh-faced and hand in hand, giggling out of sync. He stops abruptly, pointing ahead with words flowing from his mouth explaining God-knows-what whilst she looks at him thoughtfully - half absorbing his words, half just wanting his body. Her patience for detail rewarded with a smile, topped off with a kiss on the nose.

Rooted to the spot, tired eyes watch on - the memories come flooding back...That pier in the distance? He never let go of her waist as they ran down there in the rain, taking cover in the old veranda. Friday night dancing and late night strolls; youthful skin upon youthful skin. Yes, age brought responsibility, routine and normality. But they way he touched her face? That never changed - he only meant it more.

The sun starts to get lazy in October, bringing evenings early. He always liked to eat as it was going dark and the time is ticking on so she shuffles for home.

Knives and forks always look better in twos, as do plates, mugs, table-mats, chairs, and pork-chops and potatoes. She eats in silence, looking away as she later puts his food into the bin, pushing it to bottom and smothering it with kitchen towel. Threerolls a week she gets through.

It is easier to pretend with your eyes shut.

The Post is left out on the side-board with a tea towel lightly drooped over the top. She buys them often, but never reads them herself – ‘odds and evens’ are a concept lost on her. The new slippers are placed by his side of the bed, but his withered body doesn't lie in there anymore, at least not on that mattress...

Blankets and a disused bedframe, a well ventilated cellar, and an iron face - that's all you need to keep him close. 'He's just nipped out for the Post, dear' she mutters to the slick young salesman at the door, 'He'll be back soon'. But there's not a chance in hell she'll open that door again.

The words fall out of her mouth with such conviction; she'll never ever tell.