She leans back on the bench, trembling, her eyes closed, her fingers playing with the small silver cross around her neck. She can hear the innocent, carefree laughter of children on the swings, but feels apart, contaminated, filthy. She opens her eyes; a toddler is watching her. He grins. She cannot bring herself to grin back and quickly stands. And takes the first steps towards home.
As she leaves the park she thinks of her husband of 35 years, the father of her two daughters. She thinks of their five grandchildren.
Her pace slows.
Should she tell him?
She loves him—hypocritical as that now feels—but what had just happened was not about love.
Her cheeks hum. The two of them, alone all weekend as they try to catch up after a catastrophic system failure. A deep bonding camaraderie—backs against the wall. She blushes.
And, for a while, just for a few moments, she had felt truly alive, reborn from the day-to-day. Until, that is, she began to wither.
She waits for ages to cross the road outside Asda and, glancing over her shoulder, wonders if she should get something nice for dinner—some lamb, make a hotpot. His favourite. The loving, thoughtful wife. She turns away and crosses the road, shame rising like bile. She’s forfeited, forever, the right to any pedestal.
She must tell him.
Standing at her own front gate she steadies herself.
Stan, I need to tell you something. Stan, I’ve been…. I have…. It just happened,… I love you, but…
She closes her eyes, squeezing them tight. Her heart is clamouring again, her chest within a vice. She teeters on the edge of sobs.
What if he throws you out?
OK, just keep your mouth shut then? What’s happened, happened, and it won’t happen again. He doesn’t need to know. Really. Does he? He doesn’t.
Standing there she realises that she can still smell… herself… him, and wonders if she’ll ever feel clean again. Her clothes…
Scrub. Scrubber.
She won’t tell him.
She pauses at the front door. But she would know.
Every morning at the kitchen table he tells her that he loves her. Even more than normal since the results. One day at a time he says. Every morning. And every morning another layer of her soul would be flayed off.
For the rest of their days together.
She takes a deep breath, grits her teeth and inserts the key. Her eyes prickle, her lips dance of their own accord. She slowly pushes open the door with the sense of a noose around her neck.
She can hear the TV, and wonders if they’d won. She smiles to herself; he was so excited this morning, like a big kid really, even put on the away shirt for breakfast, a couple of cans of Brown in the fridge. She frowns as she closes the door behind her. What’s he watching now though, he hates Sunday evening TV? Normally reads the paper.
“Stan?”
And she knew.
She knew as soon as she saw his head lolling unnaturally against his chest, and from the pallor of his skin.
She did this.
For the rest of her days alone.
——————
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