“I’m coming too. Wait. I’ll get my …”

He doesn’t linger while she runs about hopping; shoes, jacket, scarf, gloves, wallet, keys, handkerchief, two peaches from the bowl for later; one each.

He walks out of the door and the car’s moving as she gets in. “Where are we going first?” He looks in her direction, past her, at the on-coming cars at the junction. Eventually he says, “What?”

She’d have stayed in but how would that have been compared to being here? Like abandonment. Instead of estrangement. She’ll discover which is worse. Soon.

He parks and he gets out. He has to wait for all the doors to close before the central locking will work. She slams her door just too late. He’s pressed the remote sensor on his key-ring. Their timing’s off. The doors have not locked. She opens hers to show him.

He sighs. He’d have been striding off by now. This is what he knows she will do forever if he lets her into his life. He’ll have to break his stride, make room for her. She’ll always be a step behind, a whole step, a whole second wasted, a heartbeat not his own. She however will always hang back for him. Damn her. She’ll make a point of slowing her pace for him, always accommodating. Faster. Slower. Slower. Faster. Faster. Higher. Harder. Anything. Any bloody thing he wants. Anticipating. Compliant. She anticipates. Thoughtlessly. Anticipates his every need.

They enter the church. He’s looking at the wall friezes today. Measuring some of the specifics of some of the particulars of the stained glass and playing with the perspectives of the chancel and the knave. He’s had his equipment set up in here for a few weeks now. He’s climbed all over the tower, looked over balustrades, discussing nothing. He’s busy. He’s alone. He’s taking one very precise measurement. Then, struggling with a difficult angle, “Hold that light a bit higher,” he says. She does.
“Just as well I’m here,” she says.

He pauses. Looks at her. Sniffs. And presses the shutter.