a small glass of port wine.
‘How long’s it been?’ Heather asked.
‘Are you still grieving?’
Alex stared through the window. ‘You’ll probably think me hard, but I don’t do grief. I’ve always believed it to be associated with guilt.’
When he looked back to his former colleague, she was frowning.
‘Most of what’s described as grief is regret, that you didn’t do as much as you should or could have done for the person while they were alive.’ When she said nothing more, he added. ‘In forty two years I did everything Rosy asked. She adored flowers, so I managed the garden so that at least one plant was in bloom every day of the year, even if it meant allowing dandelions to seed. She never learned to drive, so whenever I could, I would be her chauffeur. She always had first choice of where we went on holiday.’
‘I know you were a good husband, but you must miss her?’
‘Of course, but that’s sadness not grief. I wish she were still here, but not in the sorry way she was during those last months. When she died, it was her wish and a release for us both.’
‘Okay, I think I understand.’ She smiled. ‘How about you come to supper one evening?’
‘That would be nice thank you, do you have a date in mind?’
‘Any time to suit you … in fact you could stay over if you like?’
He stared, believed her expression offered more than food and wine. ‘I don’t know Heather. I may not be grieving but I might think I was being unfaithful.’
She shrugged. ‘Your choice, Alex, the offer’s there.’
About the author
Roger is a regular contributor to Cafe Lit and earlier this year his volume entitled Slimline Tales was poured by Chapeltown Books.
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