She felt ready to break into two, she could hear their conversation:
None of the guests noticed the door open and close. She was good at sneaking around.
Every time she passed the shop she would stop and press her hands and face against the glass, like a child outside a sweet store, clogging the window with her breath. She would notice the wooden tables, the old clock, the stained chair that the man would nest himself down in, hidden behind a newspaper that left only his tiny feet pointing out. He was scrawny, like a bird, and the chair seemed to swallow him. She would’ve liked a chair like that: something friendly to curl up in when her husband didn’t come home. She used to image him gently kissing her on his return, carrying her up off to bed with him. She fingered the mouldy-peach bruise rising by her left eye and guessed the chair wasn’t for sale anyway.
TEXT by Ailish McAlpine-Green + IMAGES by Lindsay Mcbirnie