The next day I resume my position in my chair. The clouds have knit together across the sky causing a gloom I don’t believe will never shift. It’s funny how much the weather seems to affect my mood. I flick through the latest copy of Gardener’s Weekly but soon the neighbours’ voices become intertwined with the words on the page and I pause to listen.
“Can’t you find some way to forgive me?” he asks.
It’s as if the conversation is continuing from yesterday. An electric blue butterfly catches my gaze.
“I don’t know. The kettle’s boiling, come inside.”
The butterfly, with all its exotic patterns and intricate filigree, flutters away.
I don’t know what’s going on between them. I’m not usually one to pry, and I am content in my little sanctuary, but I feel as if I need to know.
Watch this space for the next instalment.