The Greenhills.

He ate like a child. She watched him, tried not to stare too much, he lifted the spoon, but food fell down into the bowl, he seemed aware, but merely dug it out again and ate it slowly. She ate and sat watching him, wondering what he thought and if he thought and what kind of thoughts he had. He dribbled, dribble hung from his lower lip. She looked away, tried not to remember him before, that city commuter, office manager, well dressed, well read, now this, this childlike being. He looked at her, smiled, ate indifferently. His shirt was already stained, food and tea stained there. The carer came in late, rushed, busy. Helped wash and dress him, spoke professionally, left in a rush to some other. She pushed away her plate, lit a cigarette, sat there watching him, his hand holding the spoon awkwardly. He slept in the other bed at night, his incontinence made bed sharing no longer possible, but she missed their embraces, their kisses, that shared life sharing. Now he seemed unaware or didn’t or couldn’t care. She inhaled the smoke. She will settle him in his armchair later, turn on the radio for music, watch him sit there, listening, his foot moving along, the man she loved and loved her had been lost and gone.