I turn my face away from the windows where Christmas tree lights wink and blink, reminding me of happier Christmases. A rainbow assortment of overflowing bins lines my route, waiting for collection tomorrow at some ungodly pre-dawn hour. Finally, I turn off the high street into my narrow road, where it's more sheltered and the wind less violent. In burning sunlight, pouring rain, sub-zero temperatures or thick fog I stand there. The day when I visit the cemetery and stand above their graves, staring at the grass and stone, talking to them both, wondering if they hear my inane chatter or if I'm simply talking into the empty wind. I'm relieved now it's almost over and yet I'm already anticipating the next one. Sunday has become a black dot on the horizon for me, growing larger each day. That uncomfortable pause before Monday, when it all starts up again – this lonely pretence at life. It's Sunday: the last exhale of the week. And yet would it really be so terrible if I slipped on the ice? Wet jeans, a bruised bum. My hands would be warmer if I jammed them into my coat pockets, but I need them free to steady myself on walls, fences, tree trunks, lamp posts. It takes all my concentration to keep my balance. Slushy puddles hug the kerb, cringing away from the hissing, splashing car tyres. The street lamps flicker, illuminating the grey pavement mottled with patches of dirty snow and slick black ice.
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