When Dave decided he could fix the car,
Susan got going in the kitchen. She made
scones, she did the dishes, and wiped the

bench; she placed a teatowel in a basket
filled it with the baking, a little cream and
jam in the ramekins, with a spoon. Outside,

in the driveway, Dave grunting, and then
cursing at the god he almost never believed
in. It used to be easier, it was never this hard.

He threw the spanner at the toolkit – and
missed. Spat the crumbs on the front seat –
bullseye! Leaning over to wipe his brow

wondering  how he got here, and how the
hell he could leave, the jam still hanging
to the corners of his mouth.                Susan

cleaned up as much of  the mess as
possible, praying to the same  absent god,
suddenly worried for what might never get fixed.