No need to see his face. Those hands. Strong with swollen joints, revealing a lifetime of labour. Hands that once held mine, forming a warm cocoon.

But today I felt numb. Deceived.

Over the past year, his absence and list of excuses had grown longer.

‘Surf’s up today.’

‘Wind’s good for sailing.’

‘Gotta do stuff at the shed.’ Meaning, see you around dinner time.

Feeling insignificant, my replies had reduced to a nod.

Doubts infested my mind. Like mange spreading, burrowing its eggs deep into my psyche, hatching suspicions every time he left the house.

Hindered by my emotions and trapped by mind, I was unproductive in my studio and oblivious to the sun completing its arc. Until his shadow filled the doorway.

He smiled, nodding at the torn paper beside me.

‘So, I see your painting went well today.’

Even across a crowded room, you would hear his charming wit spill through the gap in his teeth. I mean…everyone loved him.

But unanswered questions churned inside. 

As the grass grew longer, he did less around the house and his phone became a permanent attachment. Always texting. Consumed by jealousy, the pain of my uncertainty became greater than the fear of knowing.

When finally confronted by his deception, I cracked. My mange shed, like fragments of an egg shell, leaving my vulnerable centre to rot.

Alone together in the white-walled room, his secret was a vice around my chest.

I stared at his hands. The only bits not hidden by the bleached sheet draped over his muscular form. The ‘beeping’ machines had been removed, leaving a chilling silence. Out of love, his secret had protected me from his pain and prognosis during those final months.

I felt cheated. By my own tormented mind. I was a moving corpse gathering his belongings to bring home.

Longing to feel his breath…