Still

Our usual morning routine, watching the news headlines. You leant over to stroke my forehead and, noticing your perfume was stronger than usual, I panicked that I had forgotten a special occasion, but the date on the bottom left of the screen made me realise that I can't have done. You scratched my skin with a snagged fingernail, but I never could get annoyed with you. You can get away with anything – even turning off my life support. You cradled my head in your hands and in your eyes I saw the richness of our universe as my star faded: my ghost hands stroked your face at the bus stop after our second date, unbuckled your bra after the fourth, then lifted your bridal veil and changed our son's nappy, before trying to shield him from the car that careered onto the pavement. All I could offer in return was my glazed-over stare and till I could pity no more, the pity I felt for you outweighed the pity I had nurtured for myself.