a taxing affair

As tax assessments go hers wasn't particularly troublesome. She was never going to be rich nor would she starve. Hers was your classic common-or-garden variety, middle of the road account. Undistinguished, unprofitable. And yet. For some reason it had struck him. He'd been working on it for a while now; absorbed in details he would normally skim. Where he could have copied-and-pasted he had carefully tended outgoings, buried incomings. There was something about this one that made him care.

To him accountancy was an art. He could make numbers dance and figures swoon, make their excuses and slip into something less revealing. Give him people and he was a shambles. But with figures he was masterful. He dreamt in spreadsheets. A world in which everything was logical and cells stood in obedient cornrows, realigning at the flick of a button. Humans would have objected, would want to 'talk', but numbers... their obedience thrilled him. His spreadsheet was a helix of possibility, his numbers the oldest language in the world. And he, he was poet.

Sometimes the most beautiful words can fail to stir you. And sometimes you can be charmed by the simplest phrase. Her tax form had charmed him - her effort, and apologetic scratchings. Half way through completion her biro had run out, or become mislaid, and she continued in blue. He smiled. On page 17 there is a coffee ring. A faint crescent. He sees the mug behind the mark. Piping hot coffee in a porcelain mug that just missed its saucer. 'Not to worry love', he would have said, 'Let me bring you a cloth'.

He turns back to her deductibles page. It's his favourite. Her acronyms inspire faith ' WWF, MSF, NSPCC ' all the usual suspects. He is reassured. Even if they do go out on different days of the month. A minor oversight he thinks, fighting down a fidget of frustration. He'd soon introduce her to the joys of cost consolidation. Lucky girl.

The expense columns, on the whole, are pleasingly frugal. Not one given to wild nights, travel seems to be her major outlay. Perhaps the GNER to Tonbridge to see a sick relative. They would stop by the Waitrose in Groombridge to buy flowers, her reaching for an overpriced bouquet, him drawn towards the tulips. 'But it's family' she would say, 'she's not going to be around forever'. Your outgoings column won't appreciate that kind of logic, he thinks to himself. But he says nothing as she squeezes his hand.

'There's something I've been meaning to ask' he might later say, cuddled up on the settee. 'On page 16, you didn't carry over your totals from one column to the next. Did you just forget? Or did you assume it wasn't important, that someone else would do it for you?' He would make light of it but he genuinely wants to know. She would shrug and pretend to be cross, but she would learn. And later they would laugh.

But, he thought, taking down a Manila envelope from the sideboard, it wasn't all that funny. Slovenliness is an ugly trait, whether it's putting the postal code on the address line or leaving your cotton buds on the sink. Perhaps, he thought, thumbing the pages again, his instincts had been misguided. His love wrongly given. Scrolling her expenses he now found cause for concern. Anyone could spell 'annuities retirement plan' wrong but she had done it twice. Twice? And then the incident with the ink. When a form clearly states 'complete in black ink', what kind of person finishes in blue? He was afraid he knew.

Your assessments are a mirror of your mind, he reminded himself. A blueprint. A signature. And looking at her signature now; the coquettish curl of the y suddenly looked lazy. Gauche even.

Thank God. He thinks licking a stamp for the envelope. Close shave. He thinks positioning it flush with the edge. He knew her type, he had her number. Trouble in a twin-set. Chaos posing as charm. Gotcha. He'd not rush blindly again. He takes his coat from the back of the door, knowing he'd shored up his battlements that bit higher. Kept his love, marked 'pending' for the right recipient. A good day, he thinks switching off the light. Shutting the door. Leaving their affair in the 'Out' tray.