He was frail but was slightly more mobile since his hip surgery. ‘It’s terrible out, isn’t it?’ ‘Yes,’ mumbled Nora.
He glanced at his flowerbed. ‘The irises are out, though.’ She looked at the clusters of purple flowers,
forcing a smile as she wondered what possible consolation they could offer. His eyes were tired, behind their spectacles.
He was at his door, fumbling for keys. A bottle of milk in a carrier bag that seemed too heavy for him.
It was rare to see him out of the house. A house she had visited during her first month here, to help him set up an online grocery shop.
‘Oh,’ he said now. ‘I have some good news. I don’t need you to collect my pills any more.
The boy from the chemist has moved nearby and he says he will drop them off.’
Nora tried to reply but couldn’t get the words out. She nodded instead. He managed to open the door, then closed it,
retreating into his shrine to his dear dead wife. That was it. No one needed her. She was superfluous to the universe.
Once inside her flat the silence was louder than noise. The smell of cat food. A bowl still out for Voltaire, half eaten.
She got herself some water and swallowed two anti-depressants and stared at the rest of the pills, wondering.
Three hours before she decided to die, her whole being ached with regret, as if the despair in her mind was somehow in her torso and limbs too.
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