At the sight of Andrew’s satchel by the front door I melt a little, a permafrost melt, as fetid vapours seep into my being, clouding my equanimity. He must have forgotten to take it when he moved out. I pile last night’s dirty plates in the sink and wipe down the benches. A few moments later I hear the hiss of the kettle.
I hadn’t switched on the kettle. I flick it off and retrace my movements over and again, convinced I had not even accidentally switched on the kettle.
No matter how hard I try to rationalise it, I’m wary all day. I sit in my study, not keen to walk through the remnants of his presence in the doorway to the living room. Even in here I feel someone hovering behind me. Damn this troubled house, reverberating its history.
Against the tremendous hues of the setting sun, Ven
