Marge bent over to turn the ignition on the gas heater.
Ooh, she thought, wincing. I forgot about my bad back.
The heater took a while to start up. It was always the way with these old things.
She shuffled over to the armchair -the one that William used to sit on to listen to the wireless every evening- and sat down, wriggling her toes for warmth.
I should really get a new pair of slippers, these are past their prime.
It seemed that way with everything in the house, she thought. Everything was past its prime. Every object, herself included, was yellowing at the edges, and waiting to fade away.
The house warmed up a little, and the sun was rising, shining its friendly rays through the window. Outside, the Armenian girl, the one with very thick makeup, was sneaking back into the house through the kitchen window. Marge saw her climb down the rainwater pipe every other night to go visit that nasty-looking boyfriend of hers. The girl was all-right though. Quite smart, but she did wear far too much makeup.
Marge leant back, and took a deep breath.
You can still smell him in this chair. That familiar scent of leather, peppermint and charring wood.
It was nice to remember him that way. It was exactly how he smelt when they first met- it must have been 1961, and they bumped into each other on the pavement.
Odd isn’t it? How smells trigger the memory so?
Then she dozed off forever the end.
