There was a note on the door when Eric got home that night. Dinner’s in the fridge. Don’t wait up for me. It’s over. It wasn’t much of a goodbye. He unpinned it and put it in the draw where he kept all the love letters and mementos. He found the meal—sausages and mash—then sat alone on the couch to eat. Television filled some of the lonely silence. When his favourite show finished he went to bed, lying as usual on the side near the window, listening until sleep took him.

Next morning during breakfast he put pen to paper. Darling, Forgive me. We can work things out. He slipped the note into an envelope. On his way to work he dropped it into his letterbox, where it would be waiting for him at the end of the day.

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