Sunday night

A DVD plays. Old stains on my tracksuit pants. Grub. You wearing the bottle green rugby top. A steal at $8. Looked good on your broad back as you slipped the DVD in.

You can’t have combed your hair today? It’s the Jim Carrey Grinch I woke up with after our first whole night together. When I was alarmed by what your hair can do in a night. But not alarmed enough to wish you weren’t there. Nearly two years ago.

I rub your tummy. For luck. You make me smile. You’re eating ice cream. Is it honeycomb? Your tummy is certainly bigger than when we first met and you were only months on from the ‘world falling apart’ as you call it. But it had fallen apart much earlier.

Three children. Each calling you as we sit and watch. You unentwine from me to load music, and run a bath, and wash a school top. I don’t stop the DVD. Four remote controls and I only recognise the TV one.

I get a glass of water and hear Master Six whisper the letters to HULK as he types into Google unassisted for the first time.

Miss Nine (going on fourteen) fresh from the bath leans forward for our snotty noses to sniff her vanilla powdered in the talc I bought them.

Miss two-days-from-Twelve comes into my room and asks if I’m OK because I’ve been ‘quiet today’. Reassure her honestly it’s just the end of my cold and maybe a tummy bug. I don’t think there’s much that’s reassuring in their other home.

You put another DVD on. And get a glass of wine. (Don’t have more than two!) I’m ready to join you again. Where your world has fallen back together. In your bottle green $8 top.

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