On screen, a tubby cat chases a basset hound, and his son giggles. His wife, legs tucked beneath her, kisses the downy strands of his hair. The boy leans in, his little weight pressing into her without restraint.
Through the open terrace door, a summer breeze swishes in, ruffling the curtains. He doesn’t feel its warmth.
He’s staring at the bruises on the backs of her hands, at the woollen jumper that looks like bubble wrap. A pole with a clear bag stands behind the sofa, like a servant at a dinner table—discreet and sustaining. He tries to ignore it, but can’t.
Something foreign and hostile worms through his chest, squeezing out every emotion but pain. It coats his bones in lead, pulling him deeper into the plushness of the sofa. As he sinks, he thinks of quicksand.
The dog yelps as the cat jumps on his back, slapping his drooping ears with playful paws. The rusty velvet of his wife’s laugh stops him mid-descent. Like a diver gasping for air, he wrenches his eyes away from her hands. They settle on the fine hairs covering her cheeks, soft as a peach. It’s as if her essence glows through her skin.
She looks at him, her smile still flickering at the corners of her mouth, and anxiety rears its treacherous head, whispering: Can you see? How her light dims?
He knows she tries to catch his gaze, but he studies the lines around her eyes instead. He can’t look into them any more. He can’t look into his own when he faces the mirror.
