Let Winged Things Fly

He was at the pantry door when she asked him to get more sugar.

You have enough, he said.

She looked in the bowl, a pretty English china one painted with a scattering of flowers and leaves on a lattice background. Tiny pink, blue and yellow daisies danced in the bottom, clearly visible through the crystals.

She could almost count them but she didn’t argue.

She never argued now.

At the kitchen table he looked up from his regulation cereal.

You have left the TV on at the wall again, he said.

Her heart stopped. She jerked her head to see the telltale red light.

Another costly mistake.

Sorry, she said, as the phone rang. It was her sister.

Breakfast finished, he left the room but she could feel him through the wall.

He didn’t like people ringing. They—and she—went on and on.

She chatted briefly, her voice low for no particular reason.

They were being invited to lunch but she knew he wouldn’t want to go. Too many people. Too much talking. And everyone always…