The Good News

The bad news is we're out of milk, but the good news is far worse than that. The good news is what I'm trying not to think about as I squeeze bloated teabags against insides of teacups, because every time I do, something swells and heaves within me that must not, cannot ever burst.
I turn to face their grinning, smiling, stupid faces and say,
'We're out of milk.'
'Oh Chloe, forget about the tea!' Susan jumps up from the sofa and skipping over to where I'm standing, flings her arms about my neck. I can feel happiness oozing from the pores of her skin. I give the back of her white cotton blouse a couple of pats with the hand that isn't still clutching the teaspoon and manoeuvre my way back to the kitchen counter. I do not want to be sullied by her joy.

Black tea made, I perch on chair edge and plunge an already soggy biscuit into my mug. Susan's eyes twinkle at me over a china rim. His eyes fix on the carpet, his teacup untouched. Jaw aching from clenched smile, I congratulate again and take exaggerated clockward glances.

As they leave I watch the outline of two torsos saunter up to a familiar Volvo through net curtains. He does not turn, and looking at his back I realise I will soon forget what his face looked like.