Emma paused in the hazy supermarket glow, coins slipping through dream-slowed fingers. Steven stood detached, a statue by magazine racks. As she wrestled grocery bags, he vanished into the street mist. She found him outside wreathed in cigarette smoke.
“Steven, take the bags?” she asked, offering two straining carriers of shopping.
He stared as if handed contraband. “What about you?”
A nonsensical question. A strange floating sensation filled her. Men carried things. Now she lumbered under weight while he practically floated beside her. “They’re heavy,” Emma whispered to the shifting pavement.
“So?” Steven answered, already drifting ahead. He knew her anger brewed like storm clouds, but refused on principle. *What – her pack mule? Her lapdog? I’m a man! I decide!* Today’s purpose glinted sharply: discipline his wife.
“Where are you going? Take them!” Emma’s voice frayed like worn thread, near tears. Five minutes home felt eternities under leaden bags.
He knew their weight – he’d piled that trolley high. Through tear-blurred streets, she hoped for his return. Instead, his shadow dissolved into the damp air. Almost abandoned the bags, yet trudged on through thickening fog.
At the housing estate bench, she collapsed. Shame fought tears. Not mere anger now, but humiliation: he understood. Chose this. Remembered his attentive courting days…
“Emma dear?” Gran Mary’s voice cut through the fog.
Mary Davies, keeper of front garden roses and childhood memories. Friend to Emma’s late grandmother. With Mum remarried up in Manchester, Gran Mary was blood-kin.
Emma wordlessly offered the groceries. Gran Mary deserved them. Pension pennies stretched thin.
“Walk you home?” Emma hoisted the bags again.
Inside Mary’s flat, tins spilled onto the table: kippers, salmon paste, peaches. The old lady’s eyes shone wet. Emma flushed. Should visit more.
Upstairs, her husband greeted her chewing toast. “Where’s the shopping?”
“What shopping? You mean what *you* helped carry?”
“Oh, don’t fuss! Sulking over bags?” His laugh fell hollow.
“No,” Emma’s calm unnerved him. “Just conclusions.” Unease prickled his skin. He’d expected storms, not this eerie stillness.
“Conclusions?”
“I’ve no husband.” A sigh like rustling leaves. “Thought I married. Turns out I wed a fool.”
“Insulting me?” He feigned outrage.
“What’s unclear? I want a man. Yet you seem to want a *husband* too.” She met his widening stare. “Meaning you need one yourself.”
Steven’s fists clenched crimson. But Emma moved like sleepwalker through their home, gathering his clothes. He spluttered protests. *Over bags? Ruin everything?*
“Hope you’ll manage your own suitcase.” Her words were ice.
She knew. First warning swallowed invites harsher training. So she silenced further pleas, shutting their dreamlike flat’s door upon his protests.
I Thought I Found My Forever…
