He loved her in his non-committal way, always said so in the morning, as he moved briskly through the door towards the gate, then half way up the path he would say, “See you later” and wave his hand to add an emphasis to this routinely spoken comment.
He loved his wife, more expressive, some might say, than him: she with just that edge of manicured hysteria which marked out the gifted, so she thought, from those who munched their way blindly through life, like soulless cattle standing at the trough.
“He does not love me, where’s the hunger ?” had been her silent cry to any lover, but still he looked after her in every material way and her wardrobes spoke of everything but neglect, but she, clinging to her version of lament, was past noticing truths revealed in humdrum details.
Alfonso, her new landscape-painting tutor, whose class she joined two months or more ago…
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