Grandma still paid careful attention to her daily routine. Brewing hot beverages in the morning. Black coffee for Grandpa and tea for herself. As she stirred, she gazed at the thick coffee. Steaming and lustrous. But something always settled at the bottom. Something dark, black and clotting.

Grandma continued to pour creativity into their meals. They were never extravagant, but she varied them every two days. Only now she needed more time. To knead the dough. To scrutinise every grain of salt. After cooking she would scrub the soiled dishes thoroughly and then rinse them at full pressure until they squeaked. There was dirt that couldn’t be seen, bacteria that survived despite repeated sanitising.

Meanwhile, Grandpa still took his breakfast while reading the newspaper. Just like in elementary school primers. He spent afternoons in his study. Since retiring he liked to read a lot, especially about successful celebrities (particularly former officials or generals), treatises on alternative medicine and books about plants. He used to raise an eclectic array of plants in his small yard. But gardening requires a fair bit of money so he wasn’t as active as he used to be. Still, he tended the plants in the knowledge that something cared for in the nursery would not take its leave when it matured.

Grandpa still sat there, at the dining table covered in plastic to protect the tablecloth, sipping coffee and peering at the world as it was presented in the morning newspaper. He would peruse the paper from first page to last and then return to the first page. When she passed by, Grandma would offer, ‘Fried banana?’ He would nod. Then she would get back to bustling about as queen of her little fiefdom, in the kitchen, and he would continue reading, his mouth closed. At lunch, she would say, ‘Eat up, the food will get cold.’ ‘Yes, yes,’ he would respond automatically. He dined alone because she had eaten beforehand in the kitchen. As a queen, she could take her repast whenever and wherever she liked.

Day and night came and went, the elderly couple repeating the same sentences. Sometimes there were slight variations, such as when Grandpa sat on the couch watching the news on television.

‘Wow. Petrol has gone up again. Lucky we only have a motorbike.’

Grandma, busy filling a jar with roasted peanuts, responded without tilting her head, ‘What isn’t getting more expensive these days?’

In the late afternoon she would tidy up old magazines – editions of Kartini from a dozen years ago – so that they kept their slick look under the table. At that hour she would turn on the television, the volume loud, to listen to a celebrity gossip show without having to turn.

‘So, she finally got divorced too,’ commented Grandma about a celebrity now and then. How wonderful that magic box was, saving them from ever feeling alone.