Supper

Lately, the sparring had become something of a routine, or perhaps it had always been, she mused as they ambled home from a friend’s place post-dinner. Bathed in the eerie glow of a full moon, the sparsely arranged English country homes seemed haunted, evoking memories of a recent horror movie binge with him.

Just days ago, a domestic squabble had erupted over the eternal debate of which Netflix series to indulge in. The remote, weaponised and airborne, disrupted the tranquil sleep of their children. “Look, I need my beauty sleep, and we’ve endured this mediocrity on repeat,” he proclaimed. “For goodness’ sake,” she retorted, hastily salvaging the remote, assessing the collateral damage on the centre table.

These petty skirmishes festered within her, each altercation becoming a mental carousel of replayed nuances and details akin to a broken record stuck on discordant notes.

Navigating a tranquil lane homeward, she enforced a self-imposed distance, contemplating the allure of solitary living—freedom in her own space, time, and decisions. Separation, however, posed its complications, notably the ominous spectre of a custody battle, a chilling narrative witnessed through the trials of a childhood friend who forfeited both fortune and progeny. But, she pondered, was that reason enough to endure the union?

The crescendo of approaching music and the frantic approach of a speeding car disrupted her contemplation. Swiftly, she pivoted, pulling him from harm’s trajectory. “Hey!” he exclaimed as the inebriated youths within the car, offering an impudent salute, vanished into the night. “That was…” he began. “Close,” she finished.

Arriving at the street corner, she gazed at him, reflecting on the fleeting possibility of losing him in the blink of an eye. In return, he gazed affectionately into her eyes, drawing her close. Slowly, her hand sought refuge around him.