They arrived home just after 9 p.m. A caliginous evening in November.
Walking through the front door with no lights on in the house can make one feel unwelcome like in a strangers house.
Her. Is the front door shut properly, it can stick this time of the year.
Him. I’ll check…… yes all closed up.
Her. It feels a bit nippy in here has the heating come on?
Him. The room-stat is way down for the time of year are we on one of your economy drives.
She was browsing the post and seemed preoccupied with one particular envelope.
Him. Anything wrong?
Her. Not sure, it looks official like a letter from the solicitors all legal-like.
Him. Shall we get the kettle on or do you want to open the letter first.
She opened and read the letter out loud. It is now three months since we undertook to resolve your late husband’s legal affairs.
Her. Is it that long already?
She looked in the mirror at a pale gaunt face, switched on the kettle and went to check if the front door was properly closed.
© Clifford Letts (Ropey Rhyme The Waterloo Lasso and peoples poet lariat)