The Soldiers Wife

The morning sunlight streams through the window, highlighting the dust that dances through the air. His wife sits before him, the cooling pot of tea separating them. She is studying the contents of her cup with an intense ferocity that makes him wonder what she is thinking about. He notices that the window is dirty. Perhaps he'll clean it later.

The silence stretches between them, a chasm that is growing wider with every passing day. Not a word has been said since he politely thanked her for breakfast. It hadn't always been like this. Once they had been happy. He glances up at the mantelpiece where a photo of their wedding day smiles benignly down at him. His wife looks beautiful in the photograph, but it does not capture the radiance of her smile that he remembers so clearly, nor the bewitching scent of her hair or the feel of her in his arms as they danced the first dance...even if he had stood on her toes a few times, she had still given him that beaming, cheeky smile of hers.

He wishes she would smile at him like that again. He doesn't really blame her; it is his fault he supposes. Well, not precisely, he reasons. The war wasn't his fault. His reactions to the horrors he saw and experienced...the first dead body he saw, the many, many after it, the stench of death that seemed to follow him around, the feeling of never being safe, always watchful, always waiting to see where death would strike next and hoping that it wouldn't be him or his mates.

He sighs and shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the memories.

His wife glances up. He sees concern in her eyes, but he just shakes his head again. The concern turns to anger. She resents the fact that he refuses to talk about the war with her, with anyone.

He sees this and knows that this lies at the heart of their problems, at their forced exile in politeness, but he can't change it.

He gets up and informs his wife of his intent to clean the windows. She nods absently, already immersed in washing the dishes.

After the windows are clear and sparkling he troops back inside. He hears a voice, and realises his wife is on the phone. He steps closer, yearning to hear her speak normally.

'I know... I just wish he would talk to me... yeah I know...'

He turns and walks out again. He doesn't want to hear anymore.

She hears the door slam and wonders if things will ever be normal again between them.

Later that night, she lies awake, watching him sleep. Suddenly he wakes, distressed by his dreams.

'Oh Anna,' he sighs. 'Thank God...' She takes him in her arms.

'Shh, shh, I'm here, I'm here.'