Learning to Die

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Since he is carrying a sack of rubbish in each hand, and thinking guiltily of the glass of wine he has just poured himself rather than the interaction between breezes and buildings — guiltily because his wife is in hospital with multiple injuries — Daniel Mock leaves the back door open on his way through the mid-terrace house and out into the street. He encourages the sacks to settle against the low front wall. He glances automatically at those left out by his neighbours on each side to confirm the well-established fact, faintly satisfying even on a night like this, that he and Mrs Mock are less wasteful than some.

He turns back to the house, remembering the waiting warm-smacky glass of rosso with a feeling that his last duty is done, just as the front door slams in his face with theatrical violence. He stands staring at it for a few seconds, gives it a forlorn push, then looks down at himself. He is wearing a shabby towelling dressing gown and a pair of slippers. He sinks his hands speculatively into the gown’s pockets but they encounter only a couple of well-used tissues of unknown vintage. He leans and peers through the living room window, where between the casually closed curtains he can plainly see the rim-glistening chalice on the table.

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