He’s probably right. It is ludicrous. I am not someone who leaves.

“I don’t think so.” I can tell from the silence that he is as shocked by my response as I am.

Of course I’m not leaving.

For starters, where would I go?

On the other end of the line there is silence.

“The line is bad, Brendan, I better go. I’ll ring you later, okay? Or tomorrow. All right?”

I hang up.

I know what he’ll be thinking. He’ll be thinking it’s because of Iris. I don’t think he ever really took to Iris. The gale force of her compared to my gentle breeze.

Brendan prefers a gentle breeze.

“Are you going out with Iris again?” That is his usual refrain, now that I think about it. The undercurrent of resentment there, beneath the calm surface. You only notice the pull if you dive in, which I do not. Instead, I invite him along. To the book festival or the play or the pub quiz or the concert. Because I know he won’t come.

It’s not really my cup of tea.

That’s what he says. It’s not his cup of tea.

But what is his cup of tea?

You cannot be married to someone for a quarter of a century and not know what their cup of tea is.

Can you?

Of course I know what his cup of tea is. He likes to play golf. Or at least he plays it every Sunday afternoon. When he comes home, I ask how his game went and he says terrible or dreadful or desperate, and I say why? and he’ll say something about the course or the weather or his gammy knee and I’ll say, oh no or poor you or better luck next time and he’ll ask what’s for dinner? even though we nearly always have curry on Sundays, and then I tell him about my plans for that evening and he says, oh, you’re going out with Iris again? and I invite him along and he says it’s not really my cup of tea and then I put the kettle on and he starts the sudoku and I make him a cup of tea just the way he likes it—half a spoon of sugar and a dribble of milk—and after dinner he says, leave the washing up, I’ll do it, and I kiss his cheek before I go to the thing with Iris that is not his cup of tea and now that I’m thinking about it, I realize that sometimes my mouth doesn’t even touch his cheek. When I kiss him.

And now that I’m thinking about it, I can’t actually remember the last time I kissed him. Properly I mean. On his mouth. With my arms tight around him and my eyes closed.

I wish I could stop thinking these things. They aren’t that important, in the scheme of things.

You can’t run away from home just because you don’t remember the last time you kissed your husband with your eyes closed. Or with your arms tight around him.