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I inch back and fold my arms in front of myself. “I can’t use it, Steven, you know that. The doctor said gentle exercise⁠—”

“I have given you everything you have ever wanted or needed and now you’re telling me you’re bored? Fed up? How do you think that makes me feel?”

“I’m not bored, Steven.” I soften my tone, lean forwards, catch him looking at my boobs again. “Or fed up. Not with you. It’s not you. I’m fed up with me. I feel so useless, and I miss you when you’re at work.”

“I have to work, Luna, or we won’t have the money to pay for all those things.”

I’m lying. I don’t miss him. It’s nothing to do with him. In fact, I feel lonelier when he’s around sometimes than when he’s at work. Sitting next to him and feeling a complete void of connection or emotion is more lonely than being by myself. At least when I’m alone I’m calm.

No, it’s not about being alone.

“All right.” He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s breathing the way he does when he’s trying not to get angry with me. It is curling on his tongue; the spite, the bitterness, the way he wants to scream at me but knows he can’t.

I wish he’d hit me.

Right now, I wish he’d stand up and punch me in the face.

Not so I’d finally be able to leave but so I wouldn’t have to live with this feeling anymore. The feeling he wants to hurt me and is constantly having to stop himself from doing it.

“All right,” he says it again, takes a big sip from his pint. “I’ll come home early on Fridays. How’s that? And we’ll have more time together.”

I open my mouth but can’t speak. I don’t know what to say. Whatever I say will be wrong. I smile and nod. “I’d like that.”

I’m on the verge of crying.

If he sees me crying, he’ll really lose it. He hates it when I cry. It makes him feel like he’s done something wrong.

I can’t help it.

My lips are trembling. I bite the inside of my cheek and take a sip of wine, blinking, looking away from him.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, not this again.” He rolls his eyes and sits back in his chair, shoving his pint away from himself. “I’m not sitting here listening to this.” He stands up and throws a twenty-pound note onto the table.

Then he doesn’t say another word, just leaves.

I watch out of the window as he drives off.

I’m shaking.

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. The woman sitting opposite is staring at me. The fact she sees me is making me want to cry even more. I look down into my lap. A big hot tear rolls down my cheek and lands on my hand.

The fire still feels hot.

There is a loud crack. I hear the woman yelp, and look up to see her batting an ember that has landed on her forearm. The shadows in the grate are darker than they were.

The whole room feels darker.

I leave the money on the table, even though Steven will be expecting change, and grab my jacket.

Outside, I stand in the rain for a long time. So it merges with my tears. Then I walk home. Alone.

Three days later, Steven buys me a kitten.

She is called Rosie.

She is only two months old when he lets her outside and she is hit by a car.

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