The tears rolled down her cheeks, burning hot but silent. Women
give their lives to men, she had given her life to this one and now he was
gone. She bent and kissed his forehead and the older man put his arm round her –
partly to comfort her and partly because he felt like a spare part and he
needed to do something. However small, he needed to do something. Anything.
They walked out into the sharp January day. The ambulances
pulled in and waited their turn. They waited for the next shout, the next accident,
the next young man who loses his life.
She turned to the man, “I need to go to the house.”
He wondered if she meant the bungalow and hopefully prayed
silently that she didn’t.
But she did.
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