The Vow

I lay here trapped, as I have done for the past fifty years. I feel so hot and sticky sweat trickles down my arm, only to dry out and leave me chilled in its wake. We breathe together, his breathing deeper than mine, he exhales after me and out of habit I hold my breath so that we can synchronise. Why? I know not. I’m old now and my body aches and bruises easily. He doesn’t notice, “How did that happen?” he asks genuinely concerned by the yellowish browny blobs that appear on my wrinkled skin. I shake my head and attempt to explain. But he chooses not to hear, and I’m so vague in my confession for fear of hurting his feelings I can’t really blame him. He coughs, an unholy racket bursting through his rib cage, he takes me with him on this bronchial adventure, we shake, rattle and roll and still he grips me, I've been on fairground rides that are less disruptive. I’ve taken to sighing every so often, even murmuring softly, but he doesn’t take the hint. Here I stay wrapped in a spooned embrace of suffocation. On our wedding night he made me feel safe, I was his, his to love and cherish and protect, his to cuddle up to in the dark silent night. But now that our Golden Anniversary has come and gone I no longer feel safe, I feel that I’m being buried alive, the very opposite of a vampire, I’m only truly free when the sun comes up and he rolls over and chirps, “Good Morning luv, put the kettle on then shall I? “

“Tell him,” my friend says. She’s long widowed and extols the virtues of sleeping alone on a daily basis. So I try again, “Darling…..since my arthritis, I find it very uncomfortable…..when.……ah…”

He looks up, those kind loving eyes taking me in, he nods.

“That would be lovely dear, and maybe a slice of Battenberg while you’re at it dear.”

I fear only death will release me, and it won’t matter who goes first, the end result will be the same.