“Jenny.” He reaches out to touch her, instinct leading him to untangle a thread from the confusion and recognise a face youthful and beautiful, unchanged. Speaking her name as if she was never lost, his voice wavering from the aftermath.
“Yes love…I’ll make us a cup of tea.” She is smiling now, lifting her hand to her face as she walks away making no more comment on his tears. That moment has passed and there is no reason to remind him of it, though in a moment he might wonder at the moistness of his cheek.
Pushing himself stiffly out of the armchair he follows her, tracing her steps through fading eyes. Pulling her out from the tangle of past events and people to keep her close and never lose her again.
“That’s OK love…I’ll do it,” Jenny squeezes his hand, fragile and childlike. Responding to his pale fear haunting the gadgetry of the kitchen made simple that he might still understand it. The marker on the milk bottle so that he might know which one to use. Perhaps misunderstanding his fear this time, though the weight of understanding burdens her dreams and sometimes, too often, makes her heart beat too fast.