Casualties
She knows. God help you. She knows.
You stand at the top of the staircase. Somewhere below comes the regular tapping of her shoes against the parquet floor, pacing.
One hand gripped tight on the banister you force a deep, shaking breath. Tug at the collar of your shirt. Months spent in scratchy mud-soaked wool, even linen feels like silk. Strange, too light, too soft.
A bead of sweat pools on your forehead and drips toward your brows. You flick it away with your good hand.
From your torso your stomach gives a loud groan. Protesting. You are ravenous. Dinner is just below.
So is she. And she knows. Though she hasn’t dared admit it. Couldn’t possibly let on so soon. But she does, you are sure.
Were you younger, less exposed to the intricacies of people, you could convince yourself otherwise: she just thinks you’re tired; or the great pain you must be in.
But you’ve learnt a lot, you have, since seeing her last. You have no doubts. Not about this.
At the station she sniffed the perfume on your collar when you pulled back, avoiding her. In the car she held your hand, slick with sweat, though a thick frost covered everything in sight and your breath came out as steam.
Then she had simply watched you. Waiting. From the corner of eyes which once had doted and adored.
So she knows, you know she does.
Again your stomach groans. Nothing left for it now but to face her. Face it.
Your mouth is dry, shirt soaked through with perspiration. Giving a heavy sigh, you begin the undignified hobble down the stairs, holding the rail tight with your good hand.
Every step is agony.
But then your feet are steady on the floor of the hall. You catch sight of her in the parlor. Silhouetted against the soft glow of the fire.
Sensing you she turns. It is in her eyes.
She knows.
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