The Watcher

Your alarm goes off at 6.15. As usual, you press the snooze button, turn on your side and doze for another ten minutes. You always had to have those ten minutes. When the alarm goes off again, you switch it off, turn on the bedside light and sit up.

You sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, adjusting to the light before slipping your feet into the slippers by your bed. Today you are wearing your stripy pyjamas. You always wear them when the weather gets cooler.

You enter the bathroom for exactly 25 minutes. I never understood how you could be so exact with your time: shower, brush your teeth, moisturise, apply make-up. All done with precision timing. That's why you always wanted to get in there before me; it used to drive you mad when I lingered in the shower and put you off your schedule.

You come out of the bathroom with your makeup and hair done; you have pulled it up into a loose bun. I used to love that style, especially when you undid it at night and let your long hair cascade over your shoulders.

You walk over to the wardrobe - there are still empty shelves where my clothes used to be - and choose your clothes for the day. You choose the red bra and underpants; you always insisted on wearing matching underwear. You told me: "My mother always said 'Be prepared for the worst at all times'. People judge you by the smallest things, including your underwear."

I told you that I had heard people say that before, but never actually known anyone who had abided by the rule.

You put on one of your many black dresses. When I first discovered your collection of black dresses, I tried teasing you about them, saying that at least you were prepared for a dozen funerals. You just shrugged your shoulders and said it saved you time in the mornings.

Ready and dressed, you enter the kitchen at 6.55, feed the cat and have a glass of water. Although you were not that fond of the idea of having a cat, Snuggles - your name for him - became your cat instantly. You scratch Snuggles behind his ears and tell him you will be back about seven. You used to say that to me as you left for work.

You seem to have adjusted to a life without me very well. Far better than I have to a life without you. There was a time when you would cry yourself to sleep every night, but after a few months, you seemed to decide that enough was enough. You emptied the closet of my clothes, threw them unceremoniously into a black bin bag, and took them to a charity shop.

I follow you as you walk to the tube station. It's a walk we did so many times together. Inside, I slip through the gates unnoticed and enter the carriage through a different set of doors. It's already busy, but not yet impossible to find a seat: one of the reasons you perfected your morning routine. You preferred to get the tube before the rush and have a quiet moment in the office before everyone else arrived.

At work, you keep to yourself. When you first returned to work, your colleagues would ask if you were ok and if you needed anything. You were always polite, but always declined until one by one they stopped asking. You always were very private.

"I don't need the world and his wife knowing my affairs and talking about them," you used to say.

You preferred to keep people at arm's length, even me to begin with, but eventually, you let me in. Into your flat, your head, your life. I always felt very privileged and loved you even more for that. I still do, and I wish I could tell you so.

As the day draws to a close, the office empties; a few people stop by your desk and ask if you want to join them for a drink. You know they are only being polite. You smile and politely turn down the invitation.

You are among the last to leave the office. You always worked long days, but never like this. I can only wonder if you don't like going back to the empty flat. Finally, you switch off the computer and head home.

Just like on the way in, I follow you to the tube and slip in. It's still busy and you have to stand, but you don't mind it so much on the way home. Before you get home, you stop to get some food. I follow you around the store as you do your shopping. I wish I could offer to carry your bags like I used to.

We used to meet outside Sainsbury's on Fridays. I always made sure I was there before you. I enjoyed waiting for you. We would go through the aisles, you in the front, me following - a bit like now - as shopping was always your domain. You were the planner of dinners and, therefore, in charge of the shopping.

You arrive home and juggle with the bags to open the door. Snuggles is there to greet you and follows you into the kitchen. You feed Snuggles, put the shopping away and heat some dinner from last night. You eat it on the sofa while watching some TV, just like we used to do.

Even though it is Friday, you turn the TV off at ten. Your evening routine is as meticulously timed as your morning, and by 10.15, you are in bed. Half an hour of reading, and then you switch off the light. Snuggles is curled up at the end of the bed. He never used to sleep in the bed when I was still there, but now he does; maybe he feels your need for companionship.

I wish I could hold you and kiss you goodnight like I used to. I used to tell you every night that I would always be there for you. I wish I could let you know that I still am. Even if you cannot see or hear me. I will never leave you.

...

They pulled you from the wreckage first. By the time the medics got me out, it was already too late.

...

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