WATER (part III)

"You're spilling ash down your front," she says.

"Sorry." He tries to brush it off, but rubs it in instead. Clumsy. He's clumsy these days, and getting worse. She averts her eyes. They stray across the room, rest briefly on each piece of furniture, long in the collecting, lovingly restored. Pictures of the grandchildren, the glass reflecting the small flames of the open fire. A log settles, a little ash falls and sparks are sucked into the chimney. I have everything I've always wanted, she thinks. Love. Comfort. Security. Nana's gingerbread cottage. So why do I feel like running out into this wild stormy night and throwing myself on its mercy? Her eyes return to her husband. He's nodded off.

"I think I'll have a bath," she says. He startles. "What? Oh. alright, dear. I'll go up too, in a minute. I'll clear up down here."

She pours a handful of bathsalts into the water. Still pampering the body. Poor body, tired old body, she thinks as she lowers herself carefully into the warm wet embrace. She lies back. Her breasts are buoyed by the water, bring a memory of round firmness. Her pubic hair breaks the surface like a float of seaweed, but grey now, grey.

I'm sagging, she thinks, with pity. Gravity is my enemy, the earth is dragging me, trying already to gather me in. Not yet. No. She scoops water, creating waves that bob her, lull her into a dream or a memory.

He is in bed, a dark hump against the glow of his bedside light. He's asleep. He's left the tap running in the en suite bathroom. She turns it off. He's getting so forgetful.
She pulls on her pyjamas. He is snoring quietly. She tiptoes around to his side of the bed. She looks at him. Mouth open, cheeks hollow. She gently takes the book from his slack hand. His eyes open briefly, unseeingly. She switches his light off. She looks out of the window into the noisy night, and shivers. In darkness, she slips under the quilt and snuggles up to his sleeping back.