You slam shut the kitchen drawer despite knowing it’ll likely wake him. It’s the morning after another argument and you’ve not made up yet. Separate bedrooms again… second time this week and it’s getting worse. Deep down you know you love him and that he loves you but everything about him makes you mad, even the little things you’d not noticed before, like the way he jangles his jacket pocket as he walks towards the front door and you picture the three keys slamming against one another – the keys to the car, house and office – the three places he shares as his job dictates; selling chocolates to shop keepers, pubs and schools.
You lost the boxroom to his study-cum-store room and you’ve felt its pull over the past few months. He’d never been career-orientated until recently and you just want him back. He says he’s doing it for you, build a nest egg to start a family but you’re not convinced there’ll be a nest to put the egg in for much longer.
Opening the drawer you remember this time what it was you were after: the orange squeezer to make his juice just how he likes it; fresh and natural, just how you felt all those years ago.
You hear him come down the stairs and you fix on a smile, hoping that he’s remembered his.
As he enters the room your heart sinks as he’s fixing his tie. He nods, takes the juice and slips on his jacket, rattling the keys as he pats the pocket. You watch him place the empty glass on the hall table and slam the front door behind him.
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