After he dies, I find a set of false teeth
in the bathroom cabinet that aren’t his.
Perhaps they belong to his lover?
Maybe they go back a long way?
I can’t get her out of my mind. She slips in
on quiet evenings bringing caramels or marzipan,
drops her yoga mat by the back door.
The cat sleeps on her shoes. It likes the smell.
She favours L’Air du Temps, always wears
the dragon-fly pin my husband gave her.
She’s typed up several chapters of his thesis on hypnosis,
knows that the remote lives on his arm of the sofa.
I make her tea and toasted cheese with Marmite.
We listen for the phone. Perhaps he’s in a meeting?
—Published 14th of November 2019