She opened the door knowing it would open, collected the straps of her coat together and sat down. Not long now, she thought, gazing at the park across the busy road. She looked at the used match on the dashboard; its thin charcoal arch a stretching cat; the usual fragment of blonde un-burnt wood pinched between his forefinger and thumb, both blackened down the decades and unconcerned. Sometimes the flame simply went out without being blown out or shook out, nowhere left to go. The pipe always lit before a long walk. Searching out the windscreen for his shape, she put the match in the stiff ashtray and with difficulty pushed it shut.
In the vanity mirror she noticed the doctor leave the surgery for home visits. Watching his slow progress to his deliberately valueless car with its boot full of drugs she shrank down, hoping he wouldn’t notice her still sat there inexplicably. She imagined what he’d say: Did you forget something? Where’s Michael?
“You know how much he likes to walk and think he’s like a child when it comes to parks,” she said with a dry throat, relieved to see him finally pull away.
The wind in the leafless trees made her feel cold.
The one one four bus went by for a fourth time keeping its usual timetable every half hour but she knew for sure by the third. Even the second. The nearing sirens getting louder seemed oddly soothing and correct. She climbed out the car with unusual ease and noticed the strap had caught in the door after all. She crossed the road toward the people standing around someone lying awkwardly in the damp grass. One of them called out to her, called her love.
“That’s my husband,” she said, but they didn’t hear.