Elise became worried about the amount I drank. She saw the can before dinner, the wine during dinner, the wine and cans after dinner. She didn’t confront me about it, that wasn’t her way. She was forever fearful of nagging, of being shrewish. That wasn’t her, she said; it didn’t seem like a very grown-up way to handle a relationship, she said. I appreciated that, and the generations of male manipulation that have put these fears into the minds of thoughtful, caring women. She told me that she was worried that she was drinking too much in the evenings, and perhaps we could limit ourselves. Yes, of course, it was easy to agree. I didn’t want her to worry, so I started being more subtle. If we were watching TV after dinner, I’d wait until she went to the loo before opening a new can. It wouldn’t be obvious, as long as I kept a couple of empties on the table beside me. I discovered that it was possible to open a couple of new cans at once, and have both beside me. That way I wouldn’t get the sideways glance, directed at the can as I carried it from the fridge. I knew that glance was connected to an unspoken tally. That it was connected to the presence, the growing presence, the unacknowledged and unspeakable presence, in the flat, in the relationship, in our lives. I didn’t want her to worry, that was why I started to conceal.

The empties were difficult, though. A source of contention. A source of worry. I could replenish the cans every day, but the recycling only went once a week, and the empties would pile up, filling the small green kitchen bin. If the recycling truck didn’t come, or we missed it, a real storage crisis would develop, and the silent presence in the flat would inch into visibility. It was the empties that caused the first real argument – the first time we stopped talking about the symptoms of the presence, and touched on the presence itself. Elise did not say that I drank too much, or that I had a problem; no doubt that was what she wanted to say, but she did not. It was presented simply as a household problem: too many cans.

So I bought a can-crusher. That was my solution. No more reproachful sentinels on the countertop. I knew what she meant when she complained about the cans, what she really meant. But I aimed squarely at the symptom, and my thought when I found the crusher in the hardware shop was: this will make it much harder to keep track. Not: there is a problem here that must be addressed. Not even: I must make an effort to keep the kitchen tidy. My only thought, when I brought it home and installed it, was concealment.