Spare room subsidy

He thinks I don't notice him looking when they pass in the hall.  My husband thinks he is subtle, that no one will notice the way he watches the lodger’s thin wrists; the wiggle of his skinny arse as he creeps up our stairs.

I’m too poor to keep the filth out of my house.

This is not how it should be.  It should be just me and my husband alone in our small house. It should have been our golden time after all of the tears and sour mornings. Our Claire and our Peter moved out. We couldn’t hide it from them.    

Then we couldn’t make ends meet.

My husband talks to the lodger in a way no man should talk to another man.  My stomach turns.

The lodger thinks I don't know, can’t recognise the smell of nail polish remover, that I don’t glimpse him in his shiny dresses, wig like a helmet, trying to creep out of our door.  He thinks I don’t recognise the names of the shops on the bags stuffed with clothes he carries home.

My husband thought the same.  

The house, my house, is small and square.  It isn’t big enough for secrets.