She will ask me--June--what don't we talk about when we talk about love? This is how she does it.
      We are watching a film; my chair, her chair.
      She says: "You think we should sell the sofa?"
      We are watching a film; my chair, her chair and she sits up.
      She says: "What a bastard. I don't know how he could do that, cheat on her like that. Can't he see she still loves him? She's just tired."
      My chair, her chair. When she gets up she puts a hand on my shoulder (because I'm quiet) and before she asks, I say, "I'd love one."

* * *       What don't we say? It's a Sunday morning, she's kneeling by the window, sun slashing through the window, dust motes, light, falling slowly towards her, on her knees sorting vinyl. Bloody hell, will you look at that, the hair!

* * *       Sunday Lunch I mention work. I mention Sally, such a good worker. I pour two big glasses of a decent red. June lifts hers, almost to her lips, speaks.
      "We should ask Sally over." Sip! "Sally and a boyfriend."
      I don't know if Sally has a boyfriend.
      Sip. "I don't know if she has a boyfriend. We're not that close."
      "Well, if she has a boyfriend, ask them over, we should."
      "Remind me to go via the carwash," I answer.
      After, we wash the car. We get a DVD. We go home. We open some more wine. June flops on to the sofa.
      I put the DVD in. A blue screen comes up but I can't make anything else happen. June says, "Throw me the remote."
      Pause. "So what do you think of Sandra Bullock?"
      "In this?"
      "In this, generally."
      "She's real. Sexy but not glam, not unreachable."
      "Sharon Stone?"
      "OK."
      The credits come up, a cityscape, blurred, smoggy, like the early shots in 'The Blues Brothers.'
      "Kate Winslet?"
      "OK."
      "Meg Ryan?"
      I think, yes please. "OK, I suppose."
      "What's this film about, again?"
      "Well if we WATCH IT, we'll find out."
      "You want a cup of tea before it gets going?"

* * *       What not to talk about. The bed is as old as our marriage and the mattress is stained, turned to air fifty times. It's no longer the right feel--uncomfortable. When she asks can we afford something I say of course. She says another one? And I say I suppose, but. Then she says, OK, (slowly) only two singles, and we could have different hardnesses. She likes soft. And then it's the time I come home or I'm downstairs working. What do I think?
      I think it's a good idea. She can choose.
      June says: "Good idea!"

* * *       Monday night I'm home for seven-thirty, seven-thirty-five. June has been sorting things in the lounge. Along one skirting board there are photographs of Simon, the baby shot, toddling, first day at school, eleven.
      "Why?" I ask.
      "Just," June says, then she says she's made a shepherd's pie. It's in the oven. I can have it now or bath first and have it then.
      "Is there any wine open?"
      On the side in the kitchen. Rosemount is on offer.
      "I'll take mine to the bathroom. Fifteen minutes OK?"
      "Fine," she says and she slowly picks up the photographs and puts them back in their box.
      June uses three or four oxo cubes when she makes a shepherd's pie. We eat half; freeze half. As we are eating she says the beds are coming on Friday. We could have finished there, thinking about it, but we don't. The DVD is set to replay.
      Tuesday I go early, back at six. Wednesday I go early back at seven. Thursday I go early, have a drink after work, I'm in for nine. The freezer now has clingfilmed shepherd's pie, clingfilmed fish pie. On Friday June has to go somewhere and I stay home and wait for the beds to be delivered. A van arrives at ten-thirty. A man and a lad. They install the beds. The lad mutters something and grins. I have the urge to slap him. They won't take the old bed, not even for a ten-pound tip.
      Just after eleven-thirty I ring into the office. I accidentally ring Sally's extension.
      "Oh, Sally, hi. Working at home today. I was dialling Tom Watson."
      "Want me to transfer you, David?"
      "Sure, in a minute. Home eh, don't know why we call it that. Just a roof over our heads, somewhere to sleep. Park the car in a garage we call it home, eh?"
      "You sound like you're getting a cold."
      "Do I? Yeah, been sniffing a bit."
      "You want me to transfer you to Tom's extension?"
      "No, it's OK. Hey, what did you say you were doing this weekend?"
      "Knebworth."
      "Oh, that's right. I wish!"
      "If the weather holds up, eh Dave?"
      "It will."
      "Hope."
      "You better go. What do I pay you for, otherwise, eh?"
      "Bye, David."

* * *       The beds, light blue, covered in polythene. Those lazy bastards couldn't be bothered to cut it away. I lie back on one, mine I suppose, well, on my side, my locker side. I stare at the ceiling. I'm thinking of this guy I knew once; thrusting, determined. Went dancing, played soccer, went hang-gliding. He went to Africa when he was twenty, and dived head-first from a bridge over Victoria Falls.