It looks like a bite, said the optician. Is there any discharge? No, I said, thinking he meant, pus or ooze or liquid. He looked in close using that machine that shines bright lights and makes you blink. Yes, he said, its huge with a big head on it and there’s loads of discharge. He seemed grumpy. He was sharp. So you haven’t seen this before? I asked, responding to his uncertainty as to the cause (it might have been a spider in the night). Of course, I have, he said.

You should’ve told him you’re my wife, he said when I got back into the car. I’ll come in with you next time. You can’t, I told him, they’ll only let a certain amount of people in the store.

I like being me, unrecognisable in this town, unknown and unimportant. He called my name out. I’ve seen him several times but he never remembers. That is OK. And I can cope with his sharpness and grumpiness.

Is it a bite? I think it’s about the grief that still continues. No word. But I can’t tell him that – he’s a scientist, a realist. I’m with the witches. I believe in all sorts of illogical things. What am I not seeing, or not being willing to see? The loss of her, perhaps? I’m scared of it.

A young lad came out in his dressing gown and baseball boots and socks as I returned home along Llanbadarn Road. He was putting something in the bin. It’s bin day. The wind had hurled the rubbish along the pavement on North Parade, mostly litter from Kentucky Fried Chicken. Boneless fillets one scrap of paper read. Tin cans rolled and clattered. But it was 40 mph more like 12 or 15. Nor did it rain.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.