The Other Woman

Opening her eyes in darkness, Kira heard fat raindrops spattering the window like tiny birds.

Tic tac, tick tic-tac.

Warmly conscious, she swung her arm between the sheets as if parting the sides of a cool envelope. Robert’s half of the bed was empty.

Tic, tic, tic-tac, tick.

Not raindrops.

In the morning sunlight, over marmalade and kettle steam, Robert was distant, evasive.

“Trouble sleeping?” she asked, a muffin of a woman, wrapped warm in a dressing gown.

Squinting into the backyard, he gulped down coffee. “Just got up a bit, checked my emails.”

The next night the same.

Tic-tic, tac-tic.

And the next; for weeks.

Kira lay awake each night, head filled with lurid images of young thin women twisted into torturous poses, aware of being passed over, waiting for him to come back to bed.

After waving Robert to a new day, she turned on the computer, determined to end it, confront him.

On the screen, his search history:

‘Can I love Mum back to life?’

‘Reversing death.’

‘Dying of sadness.’

‘Dreaming back alive.’

‘Help Mum, I’m lost.’

Guilty, Kira suddenly saw how small and sad Robert was, waving solemnly at her from the street each morning.