“Are you okay, Terry?” Iris asks and I nod briskly and gesture at the road so she will know that I am not angry. I am driving.

Anger is not a feeling I’m all that familiar with. It’s like a pot boiling on the hob, the lid rattling on the top and the handle too hot to touch.

I don’t know why I’m so angry. I shouldn’t be so angry.

Maybe I’m just tired.

I am, after all, an early-to-bed-early-to-rise type of person. Brendan is the opposite.

In this way, we manage not to see a lot of each other. This thought arrives like a bubble of air that struggles to the surface of a pond, rests for a moment before bursting. It seems to make a sound, this thought, as it bursts. A sort of relieved oof, like when you take uncomfortable shoes off at the end of your husband’s Christmas work party. I nearly look around to see where it comes from, such is the clarity of the sound this thought produces.

Now, I’m not thinking about driving on the wrong side of the road. Now, I’m thinking about my husband who I manage not to see a lot of.

It seems a sneaky way to put it. As if I have orchestrated our distinct routines with a view to seeing as little of him as possible.

Which is not the case. Opposites attract. Isn’t that what they say?

I concentrate on what I know.

I know his smell. It reminds me of a photocopier, his smell. Or a printer. You know that smell of heat from working machinery? It’s neither a good nor a bad smell. It is simply his smell.

He sleeps on his side and folds his arms across his chest in bed, which I’ve always considered an uncomfortable position to sleep in. And the funny thing is, he is in exactly the same position when I wake up at 6:30 a.m. He never moves.

What else? He eats porridge for breakfast. He soaks the oats in a bowl of water the night before. I don’t think he particularly likes it—he eats it methodically, and always leaves a small mound in the bottom of the bowl.

When he removes his wedding ring—which he can only do now with effort—there is something about the texture and color of the skin beneath, white and spongy, that brings to mind the flesh of a hermit crab, seeking a new shell. I can hardly bear to look at it.

He hums the theme song to The Godfather when he shaves, and the funny thing is, he has no idea he’s doing it. If I mention it—which I don’t really anymore—he denies it. He says he is not a hummer of tunes. Except he is.

He always puts his left sock on first, then his left shoe, which he laces before putting on the right sock, then the right shoe.

I know lots of other things. Of course I do. These are just the things that spring to mind when I am casting about for the things I know. Which is not something I do ordinarily.