I am sitting in the garden in a fine rain, huddled in my coat and considering my options as the marble angel sneers at the ugly line of conifers against the dull sky. I am conjuring up a favourite image of Richard as a vampire waiting for me behind the end conifer, a line of red sauce dribbling from his mouth. Evensong at St Agnes’ has not dispelled my fears or put me in possession of myself, so as a distraction from thoughts of my husband I make some bullet points:
·
Holiday
·
Painting
·
Visit
…I suppose I could just go away for a while, to think, as they say. I could explain to Richard that I must go, that it will benefit all of us: perhaps to somewhere with a high winding cliff path and raging seas where I could walk with my cold face taut against the spray, collar up and my hair windswept. The seas must be raging at this time of year.
Perhaps I won’t tell
Richard; or anyone.
Shall I go on a retreat? Or just catch a train somewhere?
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