'The way we live now' by Cath Humphris

Sheep mean sleep at Black Wool Close. I check them nightly, counting the flock into the small hours. Good shepherds, I’ve heard, know each ewe and lamb.  To me, these all look the same.

By day I tidy books, neaten spines and slot them back into order. The first thing you learn, in a library, is the Dewey system. I remember when that made me think of meadows.

I drive home into the crazy list of roads where houses are packed closely. My route has turns and twists like a woodland path.  I note Bluebell, Thistle, Ivy and Iris as I pass, but they don’t mark the seasons.  I can’t seem to learn the key to this maze.  One wrong turn, and I’m lost.  

Lately, the neighbours have been wedging their second car onto our driveway. I must manoeuvre, and park on gravel intended for decoration.

Ben won’t let me challenge them. He says I’m aggressive. It’s alright for him, he’s back first.   

We’re always turning in the small rooms, too.  Space enough, he says, for the few hours we spend there.  Yes, we two, alone, all these years, need only the two rooms, up and down.  Any others mean muddle.

Are we happy this way? He says so, and the conversation moves on.  Winning is his sphere: I endure, wondering.   

Gran’s old clock, left unwound because of its noise, doesn’t mark time.  I whisper to it, ‘I’m sorry, just not possible.’