He sat at the kitchen table while she warmed the pot and made a pot of Assam, set the oven to warm and pulled a couple of ready meals from the upright freezer. “Pork chop and mashed potatoes or sausage casserole?”
“The sausage, for me.” White gazed at his wife's expansive posterior. They'd been married for thirty years and he still couldn't think of anything better than Beryl at the end of the day. He was momentarily so overwhelmed by his love for this woman that he could feel tears prick at the corner of his eyes. “I love you.”
She glanced at him, a slight frown crossing her features. “I love you too.” She put the frozen meals on the counter and slid the oven-ready trays out of the cardbourd outer wrapping. “What brought that on?”
He tried to laugh it away, grateful her back was to him so he could soak the moisture from his eyes with his shirt sleeve. “I don't know really. I've seen a couple of deaths this week for no good reason other than they just stopped. This one girl especially. Julie Turner. Only in her thirties dropped dead of an aneurysm. It left me wondering if she had anyone who loved her or if, given the opportunity, she'd have told anyone she loved them.”
“Poor woman. That's not right, being taken so young.” She stabbed the plastic film covering the meals several times with a fork and slid it into the oven, then crossed the kitchen. “You can be a soppy old sod sometimes.” She gave his a hug and their relative positions – her standing, him seated – meant his head was crushed against her ample breast. It wound have been lovely if her underwire hadn't been poking his cheek.