I Struggled to Breathe Too

I was suffocating too

On Sunday evening, while Natasha was neatly folding freshly ironed shirts into piles, Sergey announced it as casually as if he were talking about a leaky tap. He walked into the bedroom, sat down on the edge of the bed, and simply said,

“Natasha, I cant breathe.”

She didnt look up. She placed one shirt down, picked up another.

“Whats suffocating you?”

“All of this. The routine. Every days just the same. Wake up, eat, commute, work, come home, eat, sleep. Over and over on a loop.”

Natasha carefully folded the sleeves, straightened the collar. She was fifty-one; Sergey was fifty-three. Theyd lived for twenty-six years in this flat on Garden Street, raised their son, Arthur, who had left for another city five years ago and only called on holidays.

“So what do you suggest?” she asked, her voice calm and even.

“I want to move out.”

That made her pause. Not out of fearshe just paused, eyeing him the way someone does when a long-expected truth is finally spoken aloud.

“Move out to where?”

“Rent a flat somewhere. Be on my own for a while. Breathe.”

“Fine,” said Natasha, and reached for the next shirt.

Sergey had clearly been expecting something else. He leaned in slightly.

“Arent you going to say anything?”

“Whats there to say? Youre an adult, Sergey. If you want to go, go.”

“Youre not going to kick up a fuss?”

She folded the shirt, set it on the pile, and finally, squarely looked at him.

“No. But I do have one condition.”

“What is it?”

“Dont call me for house stuff. Dont ring asking where somethings kept, or how something works, or where I put this or that. If youre leavingfigure it out yourself.”

He waited.

“Is that all?”

“Thats the lot.”

Sergey didnt know how to respond. He was prepared for tears, for accusations, for her clutching at his sleeve and talking about all the years, about Arthur, about how this just isnt done. Hed rehearsed all kinds of responses. But she just stood there ironing.

“All right,” he said at last. “Ill pack my things.”

“Go ahead.”

He went into the wardrobe, stood a while just looking at the shelves, then started packing jeans, shirts, socks. He took his razor, phone charger, a book he hadnt touched in half a year. When he came out into the hallway, Natasha was already in the kitchen, making noise with something.

“Im off,” he called towards the kitchen.

“Good luck,” she called back matter-of-factly.

The door closed behind him. He stood for a moment on the landing, listening. Nothing. No footsteps on the other side, no movement, just silence.

He pressed the button for the lift.

***

He found a flat in two days through a friend of a friend. A small one-bed in a nearby neighbourhood, fourth floor, the windows facing the back courtyard. The landlorda mustachioed, elderly gentshowed him round quickly, took two months rent upfront and left. There was a sofa, a table and two chairs, an ancient fridge, a gas cooker. At the window, hung some tired mustard-coloured curtains.

Sergey set his bag down, sat on the sofa, and looked around.

It was quiet. Blissfully, heavily quiet. No one padding about, no telly droning in the next room, no one calling him for dinner. He lay on his back, folded his arms behind his head, and thought, “Here it is. Freedom at last.”

The first couple days were almost good. He woke when he pleased, ate what he fanciedor, more honestly, what he happened to have picked up from the shopwandered around in his socks, and answered to nobody. In the evenings, hed call his old mate, David. Theyd chat for ages; David would laugh and say, “Bout time, Sergey, you should have done this ages ago.”

On the third day Sergey discovered he was out of clean socks.

He eyed the washing machine, a squat little thing tucked near the loo. He opened the door, peered in, shut it, then opened again. The landlord had mumbled something about detergent in the cupboard under the sink. Sergey found a small box”For whites and colours”he guessed how much to pour, tipped it into what he hoped was the right compartment, chose a cycle, and pressed start.

The machine groaned.

An hour later he opened the door and took out his socks. They were damp, nearly soaked, and a peculiar shade of pink. It took him a moment to realise hed thrown in a brand new red t-shirt as well.

He draped the socks on the radiator. They dried by the following evening.

On the fourth day he tried making a proper meal. He bought chicken breast, potatoes, onions. Found a battered frying pan in the cupboard. When he tried to fry the chicken, he threw the whole breast on and it stuck. He peeled the potatoes clumsily, losing half to the skins, and the onions made his eyes water.

In the end, the plate held something brownish-white, tough round the edges and raw inside.

He ate half, binned the rest, and ordered food from the local café.

A week later, he tallied what hed spent on takeaways. It was pretty much what he and Natasha used to spend on groceries for a month. He decided to get a grip. He bought some groceries, made porridge. The porridge came out edible. It calmed him a little.

But the day-to-day was closing in around him, slow and inevitable as the tide.

***

The breakthrough came on the tenth day.

Sergey was showering when he realised the water wasnt draining. Looking down, he saw a murky puddle spreading across the floor. He turned off the tap and waited. The puddle didnt go anywhere. Poked the drain with his big toenothing.

He recalled something about the “trap under the sink.” Thats what Natasha used to call it, usually muttering about, “need to clear the trap or the waterll just sit.” Hed nod and leave the room at such times.

Sergey crouched down, looked under the bath. There were pipes. Another pipe and, eventually, a white plastic connector. He gave it a twist. It shifted far easier than hed thoughtand a rush of cold, murky water burst out with a vengeance.

He leapt up, skidded, clutched a towelwhich fell straight to the floor and got drenched. He tried to screw the connector back but water kept flowing. Into the hallway, sopping footprints in his wake, he scrambled to find his mobile. Feverishly he searched “how to shut off the water in a flat.” Then he remembered: the landlord said something about the kitchen valve. He dashed in, found the valve under the sink, turned it off. The water stopped.

Back in the bathroom, it looked post-flood: soggy mat, sodden towels, puddles everywhere. The trap dripped plaintively.

Sergey sat right down in the hall, in his soaking underwear, and stared at the wall.

First instincta reflex, reallywas to call Natasha. Shed know exactly what to do. His thumb was already hovering over her name in his contacts… then he remembered her warning: “Dont call me with house questions.”

He put down the phone.

But then he rang David.

“David, do you know how to fix a u-bend?”

“What?” David sounded distractednoisy background.

“The trap. Under the bath. Its leaking.”

“Sergey, mate, no clue. I call a plumber. Here, Ill give you a number.”

The plumber turned up next day. Examined the pipe, wiggled a few things, replaced a washer, fifteen minutes work. The invoice made Sergey stare in mute disbelief for a few seconds.

“Is that normal?” he finally asked.

“Thats the going rate,” said the plumber flatly and left.

Closing the door, Sergey mused: Natasha never called a plumber for things like this. Shed fix, tighten, nip out for spare washers all by herself. When, howhe never knew. It just happened, like the weather outside.

***

Meanwhile, an idea began to form in his minda sensible one, he thought.

He called Helen, an old acquaintance from twenty years back, a fleeting almost-romance before he met Natasha. Shed been divorced for years, hed heard from mutual friends. Theyd occasionally bumped into each other at someones birthday, exchanged polite chat and smiled.

“Helen, hello. Sergey Browning here.”

“Sergey?” she said, genuinely surprised but not unfriendly. “Goodness, its been years.”

“I, wellIm living alone for now. Thought maybe we could meet up, have dinner?”

She paused a second.

“Living alone from whom?”

“My wife.”

“Youve split up?”

“Not exactlywere in the process.”

“I see,” she said, tone shifting to slightly more cautious. “All right, why not.”

They met in a café in town. Helen, smart grey coat, neat short hair, looking well. They had wine, chatted about old friends; then she asked:

“So, tell me, what are you up to these days?”

“Im with a building firm, like before. Head of procurement.”

“And where are you living now?”

“Rented a place on Forest Road.”

“How is it there?”

He wanted to say “fine” but found himself admitting: “Well the washing machine doesnt spin properly. And the cookers a bit temperamental.”

Helen gave him a look he didnt immediately decipher. Eventually he recognised it as sympathynot the romantic kind, the kind reserved for people whose lives seem a bit frayed.

“I see,” she said again.

The conversation didnt go much further. They talked about his son; she mentioned her daughter, now married. After a second glass she said she had to get up early; they said their goodbyes at the door.

He headed back to the rental. The fridge was empty, shops closing, so he found some instant noodles in the cupboard and doused them with kettle water.

Helen didnt call again. Neither did he.

***

Around that time, he tried catching up with the lads. Called DavidFriday would do, but he had to be home by eight, Cathy had a parents evening. Rang Andrewyes, possible, but could he have a lift home as he wasnt drinking, and he and his wife had family plans for the weekend.

The three of them met in a small bar near the station. A couple of pints, football chat, work chat. Then David asked:

“So, hows it on your own?”

“Fine,” said Sergey.

“Natasha ring you?”

“No.”

David and Andrew exchanged a glance.

“Not at all?” asked Andrew.

“Not in the slightest.”

Another look passed. David sipped his pint.

“I find that odd. My wife would be calling three times a day.”

“Natasha doesnt call,” Sergey insisted.

“Thats either a good sign or a bad one,” Andrew mused.

“In what way bad?”

“In the sense,” Andrew said, “that maybe shes absolutely fine without you.”

Sergey finished his beer. He didnt want to think about that. Really, he thought about it all the time, but wasnt about to admit it.

By half seven, David checked his watch, started getting ready, Andrew followed. They shook Sergeys hand, clapped his back and lefteach to their wife, or meeting, or family.

Sergey was left alone at his table, ordered another pint, and stayed till closing.

***

Meanwhile, the first few days alone, Natasha did feel a kind of confusionbut not the emptiness shed anticipated. It was more a curious sense of extra space. Like the furniture had been rearranged and it wasnt clear if that was good or bad yet.

She called her friend Susan on the second day.

“Hes gone,” Natasha said.

“Gone? Where to?”

“Rented a flat. Says he couldnt breathe.”

Susan sighed after a pause.

“Nat, how are you?”

“Honestly? Im fine. I surprise myself.”

“You cried yet?”

“No. Odd, isnt it?”

“Maybe itll hit later?”

“Maybe. Ill see.”

Then her other friend Julia rangJulia shed met at antenatal class twenty-five years ago and never lost touch with. Julialess diplomatic than Susansaid:

“Thank God. Ive been saying this for ten years.”

“Saying what?”

“That youve been living like a housekeeper with no pay.”

“Oh Julia, dont”

“Its true! When did you last do something just for yourself?”

Natasha thought. It didnt come to her straight away.

“Last year. Had my hair cut.”

“Precisely.”

The following week Julia suggested yoga. Natasha said no at first, then changed her mind. They went to a studio near home; Natasha put on a neglected tracksuit and found most of her flexibility had vanished.

“Everyone starts stiff,” smiled the young, ponytailed instructor.

Two weeks later, she was bending more easily, going to sessions three times weekly. Afterwards, she and Julia sometimes slipped into a nearby café and talked for hours. Natasha realised she hadnt just sat and talked, like thiswith no inner clock worrying that Sergey would soon be home and want his dinnerfor years.

In the evenings, she read. Before, books would pile up beside her bed, and shed fall asleep after twenty pages; now she read for an hour or more, at ease.

One evening, Arthur called.

“Mum, Dad says hes living on his ownis that right?”

“Yes. It is.”

“And how are you both?”

“It varies,” said Natasha. “Actually, Im quite well.”

Arthur was silent.

“Mum are you divorcing?”

“I dont know. I havent thought about it.”

“Youre not upset?”

“Im surprised. But not upset.”

Arthur, always slow to process, said after a pause,

“All right. Well call me if you need to.”

“You too. Not just on holidays.”

***

There was one moment when Natasha did just stopright there in the kitchen, pausing for five minutes, just looking out the window.

She was washing up her morning cup and suddenly realisedtwenty-six years. Thats a lot. More than half of her conscious life. There had been good times: the first flat, the renovations, Arthur as a little boy, seaside holidays when the three of them just laughed for three days on end. She couldnt quite recall the joke itselfjust the laughter lingered.

All of that was over now, or tucked away in the past like snapshots in an album.

She waited for the feeling to pass. It didnot straight away, but in a few minutes, it faded.

Setting the cup on the rack, she headed out for yoga.

***

Jamie, as it happened, appeared by chance.

He was the son of Mrs Valentine from downstairsan eighty-year-old with a sharp mind and the habit of holding neighbours in conversation on the landing. She asked Natasha to change her hallway bulbher son wasnt due for another week and it was dark in the corridor. While Natasha fitted the bulb, they shared some tea. In walked Jamienot the son theyd been waiting for, but another, dropping by unexpectedly. He was about forty-eight, bearded, in a smart coat, with tired eyesthe look of a man who works hard.

“Mum, you exploiting people again?” he said, catching Natasha with the bulb in her hand.

“She offered,” Mrs Valentine said with dignity.

Jamie smiled at Natasha.

“Thank you. Id have come by myself, but it never occurred to me Mum was sitting in the dark.”

“Nothing, really,” said Natasha.

They chatted in the doorway about workhe was also in construction, just a different company. She mentioned she was an accountant. He said goodbye, she went home.

Three days later, he knocked at her door with some groceries for his mum, and, as he explained, to drop off some chocolates as a thank you for the bulb.

“You really didnt have to,” Natasha insisted, but took the chocolates.

“Dont mind me popping in for a minute? I wanted to ask about your SergeyMum says he used to work in procurement, and Ive a question about suppliers.”

“Sergey lives elsewhere now,” Natasha said after a beat. “But I can give you his number.”

“Ah,” Jamie nodded, face unreadable. “No trouble, then.”

He left. A week later, he phoned again, saying hed found another solution and would she like to go for coffee, as neighbours? Natasha considered and agreed.

They stopped by a nearby café, chatting about work, about his mum, about how the area had changed. He was a pleasant companion, listening attentively, sometimes laughing at his own jokes before hed finished them.

“So, you were married long?” he asked at one point, idly, as if just making conversation.

“Twenty-six years,” said Natasha. “Or, I was. Not really sure now.”

“Happens,” Jamie said without prodding.

She appreciated that.

They went out again, then again. He didnt hurry or make demands, just rang occasionally to see how she was. Natasha found the absence of expectation a reliefafter twenty-six years of duty, that felt as fresh as an open window in a stuffy room.

***

Sergey began to notice things about himself he hadnt before.

For a start, he couldnt stand waiting. Hed never really had to beforethings would just appear: food, clean clothes, repairs done. Now he had to wait for laundry to dry, water to boil, the plumber to arrive. For the cold to passhe caught one midway through his third week, lay alone in bed sweating out a fever, sipping lukewarm tap water and thinking of nothing in particular.

Or that he didnt know how to eat in silence. For twenty-six years someone was always at the tableonce Arthur left, it was Natasha. Shed talk, or say nothing, but it was a shared, living kind of silence. Here, the silence was just empty.

He started leaving the TV on during meals.

About the third week, he rang Arthur.

“Hi, son.”

“Hi Dad. How are you?”

“All right. Still living on Forest Road.”

“I know. Mum told me.”

“And hows Mum?”

Arthur was silent for a fraction too long.

“She said shes fine. Loves yoga, meets up with friends.”

Sergey processed this.

“She doesnt miss me?”

“Dad,” Arthur said gently. “Are you calling just to see if Mum misses you?”

“NoIm just asking.”

“Shes fine, Dad. And youre fine. Thats good.”

Sergey hung up and sat on the sofa, unable to name what he was feeling. Not hurt, exactly. Something else. Like heading into a room and forgetting why.

***

On day twenty-three, he shared a lift with a neighbouryoung, early thirties, someone hed passed a few times. She introduced herself as Caroline.

“New round here?” she asked.

“Just temporary,” he said.

“Split with the wife?”

He was taken aback by her bluntness.

“Yeah.”

“Happens,” she shrugged. “Fourth floor? Old Mr Denman used to live therealways singing at all hours.”

“No, mines the one with the mustard curtains.”

“Ah, youre in Danvers place. He always lets to single blokessays family tenants are too much hassle.”

They left the lift. Caroline lived on the ground floor, worked in a vets clinic, had a cat and flowers on the windowsill.

One day Sergey helped her carry heavy shopping. She gave him tea in her tidy kitchen, which smelt of cinnamon. They chatted; she was sharp, thoughtful, direct. But Sergey caught himself thinking, “Her flat is spotlessmy sinks piled with dishes from two days ago.”

They met on the stairs a few more times. Nothing happenednothing could. Sergey felt like an unfinished sentence, something begun and left dangling.

One day, Caroline asked,

“You staying long?”

“I dont know,” he admitted.

“You look like a man who hasnt decided where hes going.”

“I suppose I am.”

“It happens. Main thing is, dont stay in limbo too long. I was there for two years after my divorce. Waste of time, really, looking back.”

That stuck with him.

***

On the thirty-first day, Sergey went to the market and bought flowers. Not for any special reasonhe simply found himself by the stall, staring at white chrysanthemums, thinking how Natasha always preferred them to roses (“Roses are too… loaded,” shed say.)

He took the bouquet, paid, and rode the Tube to Garden Street.

On the journey, he kept looking at the flowers; people glanced his waysome smiling, some indifferent. He rehearsed what hed say, imagined Natasha opening the door, a flicker of surprise, perhaps happiness. After alltwenty-six years, its still him.

He rang the bell. Noticed a new bell-pushused to be a different one.

Footsteps inside. Voices, hers, then a mansnot his own.

Sergey froze.

The door opened a crack, chain still ona new chain. Natashas face appeared in the gap. She looked at him, glanced at the flowers. Her face was calm.

“Sergey.”

“Natasha, Ive come…”

“I see.”

“I’ve brought these…” He held out the bouquet lamely.

She watched himno anger, no tears, not the wild tangle of emotions he feared or hoped for.

“Sergey, Im not going to let you in.”

“Why not?” It was all he could find to say.

“Because Ive changed the locks.”

“I noticed. But why?”

A mans shadow crossed the hallway. Sergey followed it with his eyes.

“Whos that?”

“None of your business,” she replied, not unkindlyjust stating a fact.

“Natasha, wait. I Ive realised a lot.”

“What have you realised?”

He opened his mouth, shut it. Opened it again.

“That I had it good with you. That I didnt appreciate it. That leaving was a mistake.”

She was silent a moment, looking at him through the chain.

“Sergey,” she said softly, but with firmness. “Youve realised you were comfortable. But you havent realised why. You think its me youre missing. But what you actually miss is someone ironing your shirts.”

“Thats unfair,” he protested.

“Perhaps. But its true.”

“Natasha, twenty-six years.”

“I know.” She touched the door. “They happened. There were good years as well. But Im not giving you another twenty-six.”

“Cant you give me another chance?”

She regarded him for a stretch. Then:

“Do you know whats funny? Ive started to breathe too. Turns out I was suffocating as welljust didnt say so.”

He stood there, clutching the chrysanthemums.

“Natasha”

“Go, Sergey. Call Arthur. Just talk with himnot about me. Just chat.”

She closed the door. No drama, just a quiet click as the lock slid home.

He stood there for a while. The flowers drooped gently at his side, ignorant of what had happened.

On the landing, silence. Behind a neighbouring door, the sound of a television.

Sergey turned and headed for the lift.

***

He pressed the button, lift arrived promptly. In the mirrored interior, he saw a man with flowers in a smart coat, a little rumpled, expression as if something had just endedor begun. Or possibly both.

He walked out onto the darkening street. Lamp posts were already lighting up, the pavements scattered with people heading home. Sergey made for the Tube, still holding the bouquet.

Then he stopped.

On a bench, an old lady was feeding pigeons from a paper bag. The birds shuffled greedily at her feet.

Sergey set the chrysanthemums beside the bench.

“Would you like these?” he asked.

She peered at him, then the flowers.

“Lovely blooms. Whats wrong, someone turn them down?”

“They did.”

“That happens,” she said, cracking another bit of bread for the birds.

Sergey walked away. The street was just the samehouses where they were, life rolling on. Somewhere, Natasha was closing the door on him and going back to her evening, her new life, which, from the looks of it, suited her well.

Somewhere, Arthur was heading home, just someone to call, for no reason at all.

Somewhere, in a flat with mustard curtains, dishes were piling up in the sink.

He pulled out his mobile.

***

Later, on the Tube, he found himself staring at the black windownothing visible outside, just his smudged reflection.

Strange thing, he thought, in a vague way. Strange thing indeed.

The train moved on. Stations flashed by. In the carriage, young and old, tired and brisk, bags, books, faces aglow with phone screens. No one cared about him, or his chrysanthemums, or his twenty-six years, or that closed door.

He got off at his stop and headed to the surface.

The air was cold, tinged with the first sting of snownot yet fallen, but you could smell it coming.

Sergey stood for a moment, looking up at the sky.

Nothing unusualdark, ordinary.

Then he walked home.

***

That night, two in the morning, he lay awake. The flat was the same as always, mustard curtains stubbornly blocking the street light, fridge humming now and then. Just like it had been for those thirty-one days.

A memory came to him.

Eight or ten years ago, he and Natasha had gone to her parents cottage. They sat on the veranda at dusk drinking tea, garden merging into woods. Natasha was quiet, he was quiet, and it was a good, living quietnot a word needed. He remembered thinking, “This is nice.”

He never said it. Just thought, and let it slide.

Now he lay in his rental, trying to recall the last time hed felt like that. He couldnt.

Outside, a smattering of something like snowtentative, not quite committing. First of the year.

It was very quiet.

***

In the morning, he got up, put the kettle on, and thought: buy proper mugs. The ones here are chipped, awkward for drinking.

Thencall Arthur.

Thenbetter sort out work, end-of-quarters coming and hes falling behind.

Thenwhat Natasha had said surfaced again. Shed started breathing too. Turns out shed been suffocating as well.

Hed never known. Or perhaps he just never thought it mattered. Shed always been there, always did what needed doing, and hed never asked if she wanted to. Never asked if she liked it. She was baked into a routine he called a cagebut he never realised it was every bit as much her cage, and inside it, shed been ironing his shirts for years.

The kettle whistled.

He poured water into a chipped mug, brewed tea, sat at the table.

Outside, the snow was falling now, thick and white, settling on the sill.

Sergey picked up his phone, found Arthur in the contacts.

Then put the phone down.

Then picked it up again.

“Arthur, hi. Its Dad. Just thought Id ring. You busy?”

“No,” Arthur sounded surprised. “Hi Dad. Not busy.”

“How you doing?”

“All right, working. You got snow there?”

“Just started.”

“Here too.”

A moments pause. The good kind of pause, alive.

“Dad how are you, really?”

Sergey glanced out at the white falling beyond the glass. Not much was clear yet.

“Im figuring things out,” he replied.

“Okay. Call me if you want to talk.”

“I will,” said Sergey. “You too. Not just on holidays.”

“Deal,” said Arthur.

They said goodbye. Sergey finished his tea. It was fine.

The view outside was snow.

***

Roughly the same time, Natasha was at her window on the far side of town. She had coffee, warmth, and quiet. Jamie had gonenever spent the night, a quiet understanding between them: no hurry.

She thought of Sergeynot with pain or pleasure, just thought, as you do about someone you shared so much life with. She saw him standing at the door with flowersbig, a little lost, with the look of a man the world has taught a little, but perhaps not enough.

No more anger. In the early days after he left, shed been cross, surprisingly soon the surface calm, quietly seething inside. For all those invisible, habitual things: that he never enquired how she felt; that he grew bored of routine when she built that routine with her own hands; that he found it dull, while she barely had time to wonder if she was bored herself.

At some point, the anger went. In its place remained something quieter, firmer.

She picked up her phone, texted Susan: “Yoga tomorrow?” Susan replied instantly: “Been waiting for you to ask! Absolutely.”

Natasha smiled and set her mug aside.

It was snowing outside her window too.

***

That evening, Sergey rang the landlord and asked to extend the rental for another two months.

“Of course,” said the landlord. “Just pay upfront.”

Then Sergey went out and bought new mugsproper, unchipped ones. Two. Then, on a whim, a third.

He stopped at the shop, bought ingredients: chicken broth, onion, carrot, potatoes. The recipe was on his phonefour steps. The last step read: “Salt to taste.”

He hovered over the pot, wondering what “to taste” really meant. He added some salt, tried it, added a little more. Too much, perhapsbut the soup was still all right.

He found a platenot a mug for soupladled some in and sat to eat.

Silence. In the hush, the soup was decent.

***

Life rolled on as it always doeswithout warning or explanation. Natasha kept going to yoga and sometimes met Jamie, who was kind and in no rush. Sergey lived on Forest Road, cooked, phoned Arthur now and then, met up weekly with David and Andrewthese days, the mates came without their wives and stayed a bit longer.

They never started divorce proceedings. Not out of any big decision, but because it felt like just another effort neither was ready to make yet.

One day she ran into him at the shopthe same one on Garden Street theyd been shopping in for twenty-six years. He was at the dairy counter, scrutinising the ingredients on a carton of kefir like it was something crucial.

She came up behind him.

“Sergey.”

He turned. They regarded each other. He looked all right, even slimmer, his eyes a touch more thoughtful.

“Hi, Natasha.”

“Hi. You look well.”

“You too.”

They stood for a moment.

“Kefir?” she asked.

“Yes, just choosing.”

“That ones decent,” she pointed out a carton.

“Thanks.”

He grabbed it. She picked up her own. They went their separate ways.

At the till, their queues ran parallel. Both paid, exited together.

“Well then,” he said. “Bye.”

“Bye,” she replied.

She went right, he went left.