The Good Wife

I’ve the woman with the bag the last two days, after months of no sightings at all. Usually she crosses the road when she sees me coming (I’m sure that this isn’t personal to me, she’s just shy, I think) but today I stepped into the road to give her space. She has grown a little heavier though she still wears that grey sweatshirt top. Her supermarket bag was swinging the wind as she walked.

The birds were just as tuneful this morning, come rain or wind they still keep singing.

Our neighbour was at his window smoking as I left the flat and I handed him a parcel that had been left in the hallway for him. His hair looked wild. Another two months till we call all get a hair cut.

An empty sardine tin lay on the ground outside Ultracomida. It’s lid was curled up like a tongue. I thought of my mother and her penchant for oily fish.

You’re a good wife, he said to me a few days ago. Do you mind me saying that? he asked, what with all your feminist principles. I thought about it. No, I said, I like caring for you. It’s been indoctrinated into me, that that is what you do, I do. And I want to do it well.

It’s not clear cut all that. And besides, I told him, it doesn’t matter what the outside world thinks, this is how we live, how we look after each other. Exactly, he said, fuck ’em.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.