TITLE: A SORT OF WALKING MIRACLE
GENRE: Literary Fiction / short story collection
THE GOOD WIFE
"Groot Constantia's best cabernet," Charles said, pouring us each a glass. When had he bought the wine? We couldn't afford it, especially not Groot Constantia's best, but at least we had something to celebrate Rosalyn's visit. She held my hand, squeezed it. I squeezed back.
"Cheers," Ros said. "To us."
"To happy days," Charles said.
"May they finally come," I said, refusing to raise my glass.
Charles fiddled with his napkin. "Jo, don't," he said.
Ros said nothing. She nudged the side of my ankle with hers. "The place looks good," she said brightly. "You've moved things about."
I hadn't done a thing. The kitchen was still the colour of a dead sunflower. The house was still the same sparsely furnished, tin-roofed, two-bedroomed Blairgowrie bungalow we'd lived in since before we got married. I hoped one day we'd move somewhere less suburban, someplace where the neighbours didn't give us the eye because we had no servants and our garden sprouted stinkweed instead of floribunda roses. God knows what they thought of me driving a taxi. Ros raised her glass expectantly.
"To old times," I said. I was embarrassed she'd seen what a shrew I had become, but she winked at me as if we were still at uni, at the back of the lecture hall, whispering gory details about our
latest boyfriends. It was a relief, really, that all that was over.