Buried

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You think about the kids.

First and last, in this sort of situation, in this sort of state; when you can’t decide if it’s anger or agony that’s all but doubling you up, and making it so hard for you to spit the words across the room. First and last, you think about them…

‘Why the hell, why the fuck, didn’t you tell me this earlier?’

‘It wasn’t the right time. It seemed best to wait.’

‘Best?’ She takes a step towards the man standing on the far side of her living room.

He moves back instinctively until his calves are squashed against the edge of the sofa and he almost topples back on to the carefully plumped cushions. ‘I think you should try to calm down,’ he says.

The room smells of pot pourri. There are lines on the carpet showing that it has recently been vacuumed, and the carriage clock that can be heard ticking loudly when the shouting stops sits on a highly polished pine mantelpiece.

‘What do you expect me to do?’ she says. ‘I’d really be interested to know.’

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