An old couple

Cooking he was. Like always.

Chatting with the wife. Like always.

Watching dumb shows eating crisps

by the fake crackling fireside,

the dog curled up at her feet.

Her presence, unenviable,

Slightly passive-aggressive, always.

The grim stare. The unanswered

“What’re we having for dinner”.

The evening going to bed alone,

waking up she there already,

pulling the long face already.

He didn’t hate her, nor did she.

They grew to unlove, listlessly.

Two kids, that is all it took

to kill the little joy in their life.

“I don’t hate you, just so you know,”

he said. It fell in dead ears,

both hers and the dog’s, unmoved.

He hated when they did that,

giving him the cold shoulder

“I’m heading to bed then.”

He got up, thinking of their sons:

none of them ever came home,

or called for birthdays and sad days,

or sent postcards, wedding cards,

or just… existed after they left.

“I’m heading to bed then”

he repeated – to himself this time.

He got tired, suddenly.

Sat back down, a knot in his throat.

Come morning, he would call them.

When the police came a week later

they found the old man slumped on the couch

next to a mouldy, empty armchair,

an old dog mat with half-chewed toys

dinner set for two in the kitchen.

The neighbour said the old widower

didn’t have all the lights on

that the dog had died years earlier

was buried in the backyard.

Nobody ever came home.