by Peter Ackers
sat on the floor, her back against the side of the bath, crying. But she was not on the phone: her hands cradled her face.
Ricky's eyes went to the bath; his legs went weak and he had to kneel to avoid falling.
It all came back to him now. Why his coat had been discarded in the woods: he'd left it there after falling off his bike, the very bike that he'd ridden back afterwards and which was parked round back - he hadn't realised his error until now.
He had told Alison about his affair, and after their argument he'd gone for a ride to clear his head. Upon his return, Alison had prepared a bath and fixed him a mug of hot chocolate. She had said she would try to forgive him, and he had said he would be a better husband in the future. But he hadn't said "Sorry," and he would eternally regret that.
It had been no trick: she had definitely meant what she'd said. But at some point while he was bathing, she had snapped. Maybe it had happened as she walked in the bathroom: a momentary loss of temper that had forced her hand into action, swinging the mug of chocolate into the side of his head.
Ricky couldn't take his eyes off his own body. It lay there in water diluted pink by the blood that had oozed from his gashed head. But the blow hadn't killed him. Unconscious, he had slipped underwater and drowned.
Ricky felt himself leaning forward, but he seemed unable to control his actions. He put his mouth close to his wife's ear, then closer, so lips and ear were merged. Then he spoke, softly: one word that summed up everything and yet nothing, that meant nothing yet meant everything.
"Sorry."
