Men and women

1.

Woman as cigarette
desired for the buzz provided
satisfaction of craving sated

Set alight, inhaled, discarded.

2.

He would like a wife
a partner, an equal
to make a home and raise a family with.

But what if she changed her mind
made accusations
denied the sex enjoyed was consensual.

Or what if they married
and then she left
taking half of all they built together
and the kids.

So he remains
unable to believe words spoken
that promises would be kept.

3.

When a man speaks to a woman
he expects to be listened to
his words poured into a willing receptacle.

Responses should be short and encouraging
only ceasing when he is sated.

When a woman speaks to a man
she is an irritation
white noise
tinnitus.

4.

She smiles coyly at him
She fawns over him
She does that thing he likes in bed
even though it repels her
He feels loved.

She basks in his attention
Accepts the behaviour of his friends
Ignores the voice that tells her
he chose them
and is the same when not with her.

Resentment festers
when performance ends
applause dies down
they step outside as themselves.

What came in through the bedroom window?

Disorientated by her dream she rolled over to find him gone. Momentary relief, then concern. Was it the storm that had made her confess? From the comfort of her duvet she listened to the silence, closing her eyes to the impending day.

Freedom to choose

I do not wish to know the intimate details of your sex life. I do not care what choices you make: whether you enjoy rolling in the hay with a boy, a girl, both, either or any combination of the above. It makes no difference to me; I don’t want you to talk about it when I am around. It is supposed to be your private life, please keep it that way.

I do not wish you to pester me about my sex life, or lack of it. It is none of your business; if I wished to discuss it then I would do so. The incredulous look on your face when I admit that I have never been in a relationship merely irritates. This is my choice, it hurts no one else.

You seek to reassure me that I am pretty. You suggest friends who may interest me, joint dates. Do you think I have never been asked out? I can feel the waves of pity emanating from that sympathetic smile as you judge and find me wanting. Perhaps you are not as inclusive and understanding as you like to boast if you cannot believe that I am comfortable with my choices.

My parents were so concerned when they left me at the Halls of Residence; apparently worried that, without them to watch over me, I would be jumping into bed with any boy who moved in my vicinity. It has never crossed their minds that I may find other sexual preferences attractive; they have never shown a great deal of imagination.

It is a relief for me to be away from their prying eyes, from their concern that every male friend I inadvertently mention is trying to lure me into bed. I wonder what sort of people they knew growing up that their outlook should be so skewed; I would not choose to befriend any who would not accept a simple ‘no thank you’ and move on.

Now I am faced with you, a right little fixer upper with your coy looks and flirtatious manner. Go enjoy the attention and the freedom that university life has granted you, but leave me alone. Your parties and your conquests do not interest me, I have no wish to join in.

You ask me how I can reject out of hand something that I have never tried. What would be the point of trying something that repulses me? I feel no lack of fulfilment, the only relationships I wish to foster are platonic friendships with accepting others. You have shown yourself to be incapable of meeting my criteria yet persist in hanging around. I will not become one of your projects.

Have you ever felt truly satisfied? You tell me that I am missing out on so much yet live an apparently shallow, superficial life. You do not appear to understand the joy that I feel when I immerse myself in a good book, or become involved in the performance of a well acted play. ‘But that is not real!’ you cry. It is real enough for me.

Your experiments with drugs and sex leave you crashed out and regretful, yet still you offer yourself up to whatever new experience is next suggested. ‘You only live once’ has become your battle cry as you follow the glittering crowd into the night.

I am content, whilst you constantly crave more than you have yet found; why do you imagine I would wish to emulate? My only regret is that I allowed you to latch on to me. You thought I was a kindred spirit given the way I looked and moved; a demurely dressed version of yourself.

How wrong you were, yet still you persist in trying to uncover the character you have cast me as. You suggest that I suppress what I am, deny what I could be. Have you not yet learned that difference can offer personal empowerment?

Damaged

He left me in the night. The sky was black, cloud covered and oppressive. A storm passed through our neighbourhood as I wept, grieving over the loss of my future. He had promised me forever, I had trusted him with my dreams. He took it all away in a suitcase along with his clothes, books and CDs. He left gaps around our home and a cold, painful void in my heart.

I had not seen this coming. I could make no sense of the reasons he gave as I fought against the feelings of loss and betrayal, the unfairness of what had befallen me.

There followed the grey days of late winter as I adjusted to being alone. Wrapped up against the biting wind and the cold I learned to hide my feelings from the world. Just another broken heart; I could not bear to be told, yet again, how I would get over him, how I must move on.

I mourned the life that I had been led to believe I would live. I was angry and aching inside; lightning and thunder followed by downpours, momentary feelings of exhausted release.

The first signs of spring helped to lift my mood. The green leaves unfurling on the shrubs and trees, the flowers emerging from the freshly grown buds offered hope for a new life. As the clothes I wore lessened in weight so too did the resentment and anger. As the pain abated there were moments of happiness, new memories being made that were mine alone.

I watched as mother nature changed her displays. The iridescent blossom came and went, foliage thickening to offer shade from the brightness of the sun. Much admired, soft prettiness followed by substance and a promise of fruit; I thought wistfully of the offspring I had one day hoped to produce. I found the strength to be calm and stoic, gradually learning to live with my solitude.

The heat of the sun grew less intense as a multitude of colourful fruits ripened and fell. Insects and birds feasted on this bounty before it rotted on the ground, abandoned and ignored, returning to nourish the soil as it decayed. I reminded myself that all can have a purpose.

The leaves on the trees put on their final display before covering the ground with crispness and colour, crackling underfoot as I strode out on a woodland walk. I saw him then with his new love, her belly big with the child that she would soon bear him. The rains came again as freshly cold air blew fiercely through my too thin clothes. I unpacked my winter wardrobe to be better prepared.

I ordered wood for the fire, bought books I had long wished to read, searched out films that would distract or feed my mind. In the orange glow of my cosy room I travelled through time and space with my new, imaginary friends.

Should I have gone out more? I was not looking for a replacement. I had already relied too heavily on another to provide fulfilment. What I sought was self sufficiency, to be master of my own destiny, impervious to pain.

People come and go throughout our lives but we must always live with ourselves. I no longer wished to be a shadow, reliant on another’s brightness for my survival. I sought ways to build colour and definition, adding the new dimension that would allow me to break free from the expectations of others. I became a being in my own right, learning how to shine from within.

There remains in my heart a rock that formed to enable me to move on, a hardness that I turn to when I see his child on the pavement, smiling up at her mother so endearingly. She is beautiful, as was he.

Perhaps I should have left this town with its quirks and its characters, its multi coloured life. Why run though, when the pain is inside me. I cannot escape the old memories, lingering in the depths of my soul.

I wrap myself up and protect from within. I can enjoy the scenery, there is no need to conform. Some call me aloof, others mysterious. I am a survivor, damaged then repaired as best I could manage. If my colours are not so bright then I comfort myself that they shine at all. I am as good as I can be.

There is no future in clinging to what might have been. The cycle of life rolls on.

A life worth living

I am looking out at the world through tired eyes, jaded eyes, at a world that is no longer my friend. I wake each morning unrested, move through my days with a repetition that no longer offers comfort. My body aches as I draw each breath deep into my soul. I am empty and alone, serving those around me, a cog that turns unnoticed.

It was not always this way. Once I was considered a bright young thing, pretty, ambitious, fun to be with. I was sought out, invited along, a welcome part of other’s lives. What happened?

I allowed myself to be subsumed by those I loved, what had been me disappeared. For years I had purpose, too busy to notice that I had lost what had been valued.

And then I aged. The energy and vitality had gone along with the looks and the regard. When I peeled back the front that I was expected to present to the world, all that was left was a shadow.

Perhaps I should simply have put on a show, is that how we oldies are expected to behave? I am looked at askance when I do not conform, I am criticised, although rarely to my face. I know, you know, I know what they say.

I have a void that needs to be filled, a desire to show that there is a person inside this oversized, ageing shell. I think and I feel just as I did before, even if the world no longer wishes to notice.

What is our purpose when we pass our sell by date? How can we give when there is no one to take? I will not complain about how I am treated, demanding respect merely for ageing successfully. If I desire change then it is I who must change.

Yet always I am tired, achy and so alone. I brought this on myself.

*

Carol took a deep breath as she put her key in the lock, steeling herself for the trial ahead. These visits had become a burden, a dreaded chore. Where once she would have popped in cheerfully, several times a week, she now found reasons to postpone until guilt forced her to face up to what she considered her duty.

Opening the door she stepped into the hallway, noting the stale air, the lingering smell of last night’s dinner. Her mother was sitting in her usual chair, smiling, happy to see her only daughter, ready to unburden herself of her many complaints and opinions.

Carol unpacked the shopping she had brought, tidied the small kitchen and made a pot of tea, all the while updating her mother on the family’s comings and goings. It was only when she sat down that her mother would start on her litany of woes.

The carer had been rushed as usual, no time for a chat; next door had played their loud music until gone midnight, no consideration; a child’s ball was in her back garden, was she expected to throw it back when she could barely bend? The volunteer driver had been late to take her to her hospital appointment…

‘…and after all that he took the £5 I offered him!’

‘ Why did you offer him money if you didn’t want him to take it? You know it’s a free service, but those who can afford it can make a voluntary contribution’

‘So he thinks I can afford it does he? Thinks I’m made of money, me a poor widow on a pension’

‘If you offer money he will take it. Don’t offer if you don’t want to pay’

‘I’d be better off taking a taxi the amount that so called free service is costing me. You told me it was free when you sorted it’

‘It is free mum, and a taxi would cost you at least £15’

‘£15! That’s robbery. I couldn’t afford that. I don’t know why you don’t take me in that car of yours, that would be easier all round’

‘Mum, you go to the hospital too often for me to manage every visit. I take you when I can’

‘When you feel like it more like, when you can be bothered. What could be more important than your own mother’s health? Do you know how poorly I get?’

‘The volunteer drivers get you to the hospital when you need to go’

‘Selfish, that’s what you are. How did I end up with such a selfish daughter?’

Carol stayed a little over an hour, it was all she could cope with today. She promised to return later in the week but her offer to take her mother out for some air was declined. There was no doubt that the older woman had multiple health problems, but she played them for all she was worth. Carol left feeling exhausted, deflated. Here was another family member that she could never please.

*

Damien was delighted to find the house empty when he returned home from school. Normally his mother was there with her inane questions and irritating habits. Scouring the cupboards and fridge for food he prepared a stack of toast and a pot noodle for himself, carrying it upstairs to eat in front of his computer. He had just made it to his sanctuary when he heard her key in the front door. Shutting himself in he hoped against hope that she would leave him in peace.

*

Alan barely noticed his wife these days. She was there when he got home from work, making the dinner or pottering in the kitchen. She would smile and ask the same questions, pass on mundane anecdotes about her day. He noticed that the house was never quite as clean as it had once been, that the food she prepared rarely changed. She sometimes complained about her figure but did nothing to improve her looks. Most of what she said drifted over his head and was forgotten, irrelevant, colourless as her.

*

I will change, I will take back control of my life, I will shake it up and become what I know I can be. It would be an improvement for us all if I had more energy, more interest, more character. It would be an improvement for us all if I were happy.

I will find a way to escape from this cell I have built around myself, I will somehow find the means to fight this lethargy and reticence. There is no need to walk away, I can do this from here, not for them, but for me.

Fly me to the moon

I don’t like Uncle Frank, and he is not my uncle. I don’t know why I have to call him that. When he comes to stay Mummy gets all silly and fussy. She makes me sit at the table but won’t talk to me the way she normally does. He asks me stupid questions in a voice I hate. Why can’t he just talk to me normally?

Not that I want to talk to him. I wish he would go away. I told Mummy that I hated him coming here but she won’t listen. She says that he makes her happy. She doesn’t seem happy when she’s cleaning the house before he arrives, shouting at me to put my toys away or change my clothes.

He keeps bringing me new toys. I wish that Mummy would buy me the toys, then I could like them. When he brought me the big Lego set that I wanted I thought Mummy would help me to build it which would have been fun. She told me she was busy and to ask Uncle Frank, but I don’t want to play with Uncle Frank. He spent ages putting the set together and then Mummy sent me to my room because I ignored it. I hate that set.

Daddy seems to understand. When I tell him about Uncle Frank he hugs me and tells me that I don’t have to like every Tom, Dick or Harry that Mummy brings home. I don’t really know what he means, Mummy doesn’t bring any one else home to stay. All her other friends are from before and come around with their children for a morning or an afternoon. I like some of them, even if their children are annoying. Callum broke my rocket set and didn’t even get told off. That was so unfair. I always get told off when I break something, especially if it belongs to someone else.

Daddy brought a lady back to his house once. He acted all silly around her like Mummy does with Uncle Frank. I cried and told him that I didn’t like her so he doesn’t bring her round when I am there. He listens to me. I wish that he would live with Mummy again, although without the shouting and crying.

After Daddy moved out the teachers at school kept asking me if I was okay. It was so embarrassing, I wished that they would leave me alone. I would have been okay if Uncle Frank hadn’t come along. Mummy used to do loads of fun stuff with me, we didn’t even have to go out or anything. She would let me help make cakes or top pizzas and then we would watch a film together, curled up on the sofa. Now Uncle Frank sits with her on the sofa and she ignores me.

I used to think that the other kids at school were lucky when they got taken to museums and theme parks. Daddy was always too busy and Mummy too tired. Now I have to go with Uncle Frank and I wish I could just go back to being at home with Mummy. If Uncle Frank is there then everything is spoiled. Mummy is so different when he is around, not like my mummy any more.

She left me alone with him once while she went shopping or something. I cried and screamed until I was sick. Then I lay in bed until Mummy got home. Uncle Frank wouldn’t stop talking, even though I pulled my duvet up over my head. He told me that he loved my Mummy and wanted to marry her, but that she was worried about me. He told me that he wanted to get to know me and hoped that we could grow to like each other. I told him that I hated him and wished he was dead.

Mummy asked me if I would like to be a bridesmaid, to dress up and be a princess for a day. I told her that I would prefer to be an astronaut or Batman. Uncle Frank laughed when Mummy told him. He said that I could be whatever I wanted which made Mummy look cross, the way she used to with Daddy. Daddy tells me I can be whatever I want too.

Mummy tried to take me shopping for princess dresses but I wouldn’t put any on. They looked silly and I knew Mummy would tell me off for playing in them if I got dirty or dropped food down them. She cried in the shop which made me feel bad, then we went and had something to eat.

Uncle Frank invited us to stay at his house for a night. It is bigger than ours and has a garden that goes on forever, with a pond filled with fish and lots of big trees. He asked if I would like him to make me a tyre swing to hang off one of the branches. He said it in a normal voice so I said okay. I still hate him, but a tyre swing would be fun.

They were shouting at each other about the princess dress. Uncle Frank said I should be allowed to dress as an astronaut if it meant they could get married, but Mummy said it would ruin her day. I felt really bad. Mummy has stopped being so silly around Uncle Frank but she still doesn’t treat me the way she did when Daddy left. It all feels messed up and I think it is my fault.

I don’t know if they are going to get married now. Uncle Frank made me the tyre swing but he and Mummy keep arguing about the wedding. She wants to have a big, perfect party and he just wants to be married. I wish that they would stop shouting. Daddy smiles when I tell him about it. He reminds me of Declan at school, the way he looks when he pushes someone over and the teachers don’t notice. Declan is a bully. It makes me feel all squirmy to think of Daddy and Declan.

I told Mummy that I would wear a princess dress if she wanted me to. She gave me a big hug but still didn’t look very happy. Uncle Frank doesn’t look happy any more either. I don’t want him to be dead now, and I wouldn’t mind going to live at his house. He was going to decorate my new bedroom with rockets and buy me an astronaut suit even if I couldn’t wear it to the wedding.

I wonder will he buy me the astronaut suit if they don’t get married.

The worst date

The worst date is the one where the relationship ends, the one where he asks you to join him at that special place, and you know that you will have to break his heart. You get ready with your usual care, internally preparing the speech that you must pluck up the courage to make. The worst date is the one where you break up and he did not see it coming.

Jack was my dream come true. He was tall and slim with a wit so quick I had to stay close to catch the facetious comments he would quietly drop to show how pretentious or shallow the general conversation had become. He never felt the need to push his point of view, but when he chose to speak those who knew him listened.

When he smiled at me it felt as though we were the only two people in that crowded room. He would drape his arm around my shoulders and I would melt into him, basking in the glow of his intelligence. If anyone was surprised when we got together they quickly accepted my presence amongst the elite. So long as I was with Jack I belonged.

When we were alone he would drive me to out of the way places where we would lie on our backs and search out shooting stars. He talked of music, opera, travel, books and college. He planned out his future, never doubting that he would achieve his goals. When I asked where I fitted in his plans he would roll over, encircle me in his arms and kiss me gently. ‘With me’ he would say. For a time that was all I needed to hear.

I did have opinions but they could too easily be countered. I quickly learned not to try to join in their debates. When Jack worried me with a turn of phrase and I questioned him later he would have endless reasons to back up his thoughts. I would lie in bed while he slept, frustrated by my inability to vocalise my niggling concerns.

How tempting his future looked, filled with brightness and ease and love. But what was it about me that he loved? He could not have been more gentle and caring yet he made no effort to find out what I thought. When I tried to discuss he would indulge my ideas before reminding me how right he always was. I could not make him see why I did not always agree, internalising the concerns that grew stronger with their demands to be heard.

He thought that I was sweet and cute and adorable. His mother loved me, a kindred spirit come into a household filled with boys. His father looked at me through eyes that I guessed saw far more than was ever said. He knew better than to interfere, allowing life to take it’s inevitable course, unable to prevent his family suffering the fallout of my actions.

I could have handled things better but did not know how. I knew that I was being crushed by his love, but this gilded life was not one I could expect to experience again. I wonder how much longer it would have lasted had I not met David, had I not rediscovered fun.

It was not the excitement of the new that decided my fate, although that too was a draw, but the reminder that I was young and could feel free. I did not wish to settle down in the shadow of another, however impressive. I had my own life to lead.

I broke his heart and I watched him fall. Something inside him died at my hands and he could not understand what he had done wrong. I had never been able to show him the world through my eyes, to explain how I felt and why. I allowed him to see my betrayal as an act of evil rather than self preservation. It felt kinder to cut cleanly than to have him question what he was.

When he did not go on to achieve the great things that were expected of him I wondered at the impact of my actions. I can only hope that my influence was not so great. I convinced myself that I had done what was best for both of us, yet I recognise now that I acted selfishly.

I learned to insist on myself, to resist subsuming what I was in the presence of a stronger personality. I learned that the intelligent are not always right, that all opinions should be listened to.

In the end it was I who went on to achieve. There were none more surprised at this than me.

Home is where the heartache is

The house looked familiar yet different: smaller, neater, darker. Matthew picked up his overnight bag and crossed the road. He could picture his mother behind the net curtain, touching her hair to ensure neatness, smoothing her skirt, unsure whether to open the door to greet him or remain sitting in her chair until he was shown inside. He braced himself.

The old man answered his knock, smiled warmly in greeting and ushered him across the freshly vacuumed carpet towards the good front room. Had this furniture ever been in fashion? How had these ornaments appeared interesting to a small boy? Matthew recognised each of the cluttered possessions sitting in it’s carefully dusted place, no longer surrounded by the detritus of  family life. The house stood as a museum to his parents lives.

‘Hello son, did you have a good journey?’ she asked. He took off his coat, sat down in front of her and prepared for the onslaught of questions. It took only a few minutes for the recriminations to begin.

Perhaps he should return more often. There was guilt in the background but he could not face this place too often. He made excuses to himself, citing cost as well as time and worth. They were always pleased to see him but never satisfied with what they found. It had always been thus.

When away from this place he carried happy memories of a rose coloured childhood, of parents who had done their best in the small world that was all they had ever known. These visits were almost too raw to bear, reminding him of the darker times, the accusations and arguments.

His mother was talking of neighbours long forgotten, of relatives in which he had no interest. They were her life now, they were all that she had.

She felt hard done by that he had not turned out as she had wished, as she had dreamed and planned. She wanted to be able to boast of his accomplishments, to respond to the tales of impressive achievement by her acquaintances offspring with one-upmanship. She took his inability to provide her with conversational fodder as a personal affront, deliberately withheld for no reason that she could fathom.

She could not see him as an individual, only as her son.

His father sat across the room, an expression of indulgence on his aged face. It had always been unclear how much he took in. He would be pleased at this visit, but was this pleasure due to the boost it would give his wife or because he too wished to see his only son? He had always been a man of few words.

It took only an hour or so before the conversation ran dry. They had so little in common save for blood. Matthew had tried to share a portion of his life but had elicited only an outflow of tales of other sons who had experienced what his mother perceived as similar adventures. He would never be able to make her understand, perhaps she did not want to.

She had put aside some books for him, a nearly new jumper that some friend had given his father but was too big, a cheque from a bond that had matured. He took the gifts, murmuring words of gratitude, wondering how he could dispose of the unwanted items.

The cup of tea was welcome and he noted that the kitchen appliances looked old and worn, much like his ageing parents. He knew that they had been looking forward to this visit and worked hard to make it pleasant. Still, he could not agree to their suggestions. He would not call in on an old neighbour, he would not agree to apply for the job his mother had carefully clipped from the newspaper for his consideration. He saw tears well up in her eyes as she wondered why he persisted in being so difficult.

He had booked a room in a nearby hotel so as not to inconvenience them unduly. He had been surprised at how easily they had acquiesced to this suggestion suspecting that they were relieved, grateful for a chance of respite.

He left to check in, freshen up before meeting for dinner at a local restaurant. His father insisted that it was to be his treat.

A few hours apart and they would have recharged their batteries, be ready once again to cope with each others idiosyncrasies. The wine would lubricate the evening, the neutral venue would ease the awkwardness, it would be fine.

He would call by the next morning and stay for lunch before returning to the airport. His mother would hold him close and cry when they said goodbye.

They would all be happy to return to the normality of their everyday lives.

 

Saying goodbye

Margaret sat by the bed holding her husband’s hand. It felt cold and bony, the skin dry to the touch. Or was that her hand, wrinkled and dry despite the potions and lotions rubbed in over the years? They had both changed so much over the course of their seventy three year marriage. How had the time passed so quickly? Margaret thought back to the day they had met, of how he had smiled at her and eagerly held out his hand as her friend Betty had introduced them. That hand had felt warm, soft and strong. The hand she held today felt as though it would break if she squeezed it too hard, even with the limited strength that she possessed these days.

His face, pale and deeply lined, looked peaceful; the few wisps of hair that remained lying soft against the pillow. They reminded her of a baby’s although the liver spotted scalp belied the comparison. Could this old man ever have been a baby? Margaret struggled to imagine her long dead, fierce mother in law cradling an infant. Yet she had raised seven children, five of whom had made it through to adulthood. None but Alfie had ever shown Margaret any kindness.

His family had considered her beneath them. Her refusal to accept their offer to pay for her children to go away to the good school had never been forgiven, perhaps because the children had done just fine anyway. She and Alfie had been determined to raise their children in love, not the fear that he had suffered. They did not need a big house or a fancy car, although Alfie had sometimes looked wistful when he mentioned the holidays that his siblings felt were their due.

Margaret wondered if it was this tendency to hanker after what he could not have that had caused his affairs. The other women had cast an unmentioned shadow over the middle years of their marriage. It had been hard for her to remain silent and stoic whilst offering him a welcoming and peaceful retreat at home, hoping that he would get over whatever melancholy it was that drove him to seek solace in the arms of another.

And he had, eventually, come back to her. They had never talked about that period in their lives; she had never told him that she too had found comfort outside their home. She wondered had he known and also chosen to look the other way.

The unspoken decision to stay together had been the right one. As their children had married and produced her adored grandchildren there had been none of the bitterness that she had witnessed amongst her divorced friends. Alfie may have liked to have seen more of the world than they had managed but, in his later years, he appreciated that they could live independently because they had each other and their children close by. Unlike his siblings they had not been consigned to the depths of a care home, visited perfunctorily a few times a year by offspring who had been raised at a distance as their parents travelled the world and lived their lives for themselves.

Of course, it was never that simple. Margaret had not seen the son who had emigrated to Australia in over twenty years, had never met his grandchildren. She had already outlived two of her five children. It was the grandchildren that she had helped to raise who now did most for her. Even their little children were no longer little.

Margaret wondered at the length of time she had lived, at the changes she had seen. Alfie had tried to embrace this new world, buying a computer that he struggled to understand, carrying a mobile phone that he never used. Their small, assisted flat could not accommodate many possessions yet he had wanted to feel a part of the time in which they now lived. This seemed to require the purchase of so many new and unnecessary dust collecting gadgets.

Margaret was content with her memories and the company of her family, at least one of whom would pop in each day to check that she had everything that she needed. She wondered if they kept a rota and smiled to herself to think of the discussions this could generate. If nothing else, it ensured that they looked out for each other as much as for their aged dependants.

Margaret realised that the sun was rising and checked the time on the small, bedside clock. Another hour and she would call her closest granddaughter to pass on the news. It would not be unexpected, Alfie had been poorly for some time.

Margaret sighed at the thought of the fuss that was to come. She would miss his company but they had lived a long and satisfactory life together. He had begged her not to let the doctors drag out his days just because they could, to relieve him of his pain when the time came. She had done as he had asked and sat with him as he fell into his deep and final sleep. Her only fear was that she would not now have anyone to grant the same favour when her time came.

The imaginary husband

It was at 5am on the morning of their fourth wedding anniversary that Karen realised Mark was not the man she had married. They had celebrated the night before, eating at an upmarket restaurant and drinking far too much good wine before catching a taxi home to make love and fall asleep in a blur of stickiness, sweat and alcohol. It should have been fabulous.

Karen climbed out of their bed carefully so as not to wake her still sleeping husband. Pulling on her robe she quietly made her way downstairs. She needed to drink water and to think. She knew that she would be feeling hungover for most of the day but the full effects of her overconsumption had yet to kick in. She wondered if her temporary fragility was to blame for the negative thoughts, before accepting that she was once again making excuses for a realisation that she had been refusing to acknowledge for some time.

Standing alone in their kitchen she looked around at the home they had built together. She had considered them a team, working together, supporting each other against whatever life would throw at them. Now she could see that she had been mistaken. She did not doubt that Mark loved her, only that he could no longer be relied upon to be there for her when she needed him.

Her dream had started to unravel when Mark had agreed to a visit from his sister. Karen had already made plans for the weekend but Mark would not suggest a change of date, instead assuring her that there was no need for her to stay around. It felt like a betrayal as she had assumed that Mark would be coming away with her, although nothing had been agreed.

Karen returned earlier than planned to find the sister happily installed in her home, taking little care to treat the space gently. The sister had a lot to say about how the various rooms were arranged, how this could be improved, what additions should be made. Karen felt resentful, usurped.

Over the meal that had been prepared the conversation felt stilted. Karen played her part but there was little common ground between the two women. When she tried to talk to Mark about her feelings afterwards he had hugged her but shown no empathy. The only comfort she could enjoy was the knowledge that such visits were few and far between.

When they happened though they were always the same. The sister felt at home in her brother’s house and would happily rummage through cupboards when she wanted something rather than ask where it was kept. Karen wanted her to behave like a guest, not the member of the household that she assumed herself to be. Mark acted happy to have his sister around even though he acknowledged to Karen that they had little in common other than blood. He too found it hard to converse naturally, but this was not enough to make him willing to discourage the visits. He resented that Karen could not accept this with better grace.

It was at a wider family gathering that Karen overheard her in laws discussing their marriage, asking Mark why he had chosen someone who was so different to them. He did not defend her, merely smiled, shrugged and wandered off to refill his drink. She confronted him later but he would not be drawn into what threatened to become a pointless argument. Karen swallowed down her hurt but could not forget.

It would be futile to expect him to make a choice between her and his family. In law issues were the stuff of jokes and comedy sketches for a reason, she would have to learn to cope. Karen still considered that she and Mark were a team. She felt that he had let her down, fallen short of expectations. She still believed that if he could be made to understand how much this was bothering her then he would act differently.

It was when he started to defend others that Karen realised they were not singing from the same hymn sheet. She would be passing on some news about a mutual friend and he would disagree with her reading of the situation. It was always the women that he stood up for, even those he barely knew. Karen wondered if he considered her a bitch, she began to doubt her own motives. Gradually she stopped sharing her news with him for fear of his reaction.

And then, when they were out with friends, he started to recount a tale from a meeting with someone they knew well, which he had not previously shared with her. She felt betrayed, that he did not see how much she wanted to be involved in all aspects of his life. She felt sidelined, a spare part rather than the essential cog that she had considered herself to be when they had married.

It was only this morning, as she awoke, that the real truth had dawned on her. Mark had never been anything different. It was she who had invented this idea of him because it was how she wanted them to be. Mark loved her but he had never promised to be all things to her. He had never agreed to take her side against the world.

Karen felt betrayed and alone, yet nobody could be blamed except herself. Time and again she had tried to explain to Mark how she felt, never realising that he had no wish to know. He did not try to change her, accepting her moods but expecting her to fulfil her obligations. They were not the team that she had always imagined them to be.

Accepting that her idea of Mark had been an invention meant letting the illusion go. She felt grief, as if he had died even though he had never existed. If her marriage was to survive then she would need to accept the reality of the man to whom she was wed. She would need to work out if she loved him as much as the image of him that she had constructed and revered for so long.

Karen heard the floorboards above her creak and knew that she needed to act out this day as expected. She was not yet ready to come to any decision, she needed time to mull her realisation, to decide on it’s significance to her future life. How important to her was it that her husband should be a friend she could rely on in all circumstances? Could she live with the knowledge that she would never be as important to him as she wished?

Her head was starting to throb as the expected hangover took hold. She refilled her glass of water and prepared another to take upstairs for her husband. Small kindnesses such as this were easy to offer. It was the continuing unconditional giving of herself, when she could no longer expect this to be reciprocated, that would be the challenge.