The back room of the bungalow has a view of the garden. Two wicker chairs look out.
They’d all written in the retirement card, even the girls from the back office.
He leaned arthritic fingers on the doorframe and breathed the smell of newly painted walls. He watched the woman he married thirty eight years ago. She knelt by a box. She unpacked school photos of grandchildren framed in black cardboard.
He spoke.
“This will be a nice room to die in.”
She looked up at him. He smiled. She rose slowly to her feet.
She spoke.
“Cup of tea?”