The clock ticks. The early-spring evening sky tie-dyes itself yellow, orange and red. George ignores the glorious sun setting outside the window and continues to stare at the dining table where his dinner won’t appear. Finally, he gets up and slow-shuffles to the kitchen.

Before the funeral, he’d been living off the Tupperware boxes that were placed quietly on his doorstep by neighbours who couldn’t stand him but loved his wife. George had watched them tiptoeing up the path, then scurrying back down it before he could get to the door. As if he’d thank them.

He had eaten the soggy stews in his pants and vest, flicking out bits of broccoli along with anything pink and suspicious. He had washed down claggy mashed potato, and thick gravy skin with gulps of water from the tap, cupping the liquid in his hands after he’d realized he couldn’t fit his head under it. He soaked the front of his vest, his sagging brown nipples visible. He didn’t care.

At the funeral, Barbara-from-the-fucking-church-and-the-fucking-book-club had plied him with two curled-up egg-and-cress sandwiches. He had put them into his mouth to stop himself telling Barbara how much he disliked her and what she could do with her patronizing smiles and arm pats. God works in mysterious ways, she had told him. God could fuck off, as far as George was concerned, and he let Barbara know as much once he’d swallowed the second sandwich.

George thinks perhaps he should eat something now. It might make him feel better. He’s at the age where his diabetes is controlled with tablets, but the threat of injections looms. He knows he needs to sort out his blood sugar, although he doesn’t know what blood sugar is because he doesn’t listen at the doctor’s appointments. That’s Ellen’s job. He’s sure it means he should eat something sweet.

He opens the bread bin and this is where he spots the letter. He has to look twice to make sure he’s not seeing things. It’s really there, though, with his name on it, in Ellen’s handwriting.

She’s never written him a letter before. She’s never needed to. Sometimes she left him notes: Didn’t want to wake you. Remember to pay the milkman when he comes. I’ll be at Knit and Natter. Money on the side. Be home at 3.35 p.m.

This is a letter, though, in an envelope that looks thick and expensive.