Eventually, because I really do get quite tired these days, I find myself drifting towards sleep. Josh is telling me about his flat, something to do with those paint samples on his bedroom wall still being in situ, nearly three decades on. ‘Turns out it’s too hard to decide between vanilla and vanilla,’ he says, and I smile, and the last thing I hear as I close my eyes is the sound of his voice.
It is, I think, the last sound I would ever want to hear.
82.
Rachel
July 2033
I seem to have got into the habit of upsetting people lately, one way or another. And today is no different.
Josh is here, and he has brought a picnic. After we’ve eaten, we lie on a rug in my back garden, side by side beneath an old parasol I’d forgotten I had. The day feels companionable and safe, the sky endlessly blue.
Suddenly, I sit up. There is something buzzing nearby, a grinding, repetitive whirring. An insect? But I can’t see it. I wonder how big it might be, to be capable of making a noise so jarring.
‘You okay?’ Josh says, sitting up too.
‘What’s that noise?’
It takes him a long time to answer, so maybe he is also confused. ‘A lawnmower,’ he says eventually. ‘Someone’s mowing their lawn.’
‘Who is?’
‘One of your neighbours?’
He says this as if he’s asking me, but I asked him first, so that doesn’t make sense. After a moment or two, I give up and just shrug.
The sun is starting to sneak past the edge of the parasol. It feels good against my skin, like something my body needs. Perhaps it will burn off all the fogginess that seems to sit in clumps around my brain these days.
I splay my hand on the grass, press down against the ground. It is hotter than I expected, because it looks so cold and fresh.The lawn and trees and sky are all deep green or vibrant blue. But those colours feel like a lie.
I lift my sunglasses and peer at Josh. It occurs to me that he looks very young, in that tight T-shirt, with his thick, dark hair and boyish, gleaming skin. ‘How old are you?’
‘Um.’ He clears his throat. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘You look young. How long have we been friends?’
I am surprised to realise he seems emotional suddenly. Tears have bunched in his eyes, and I see him gently clench a fist. Was it something I said?
I suppose it must have been.
He leans over, tugging me into a soft hug. I don’t mind: he asks permission with his arms. And he smells very nice, of a fragrance so familiar it feels like time travel.
I smile. Yes, of course. How could I have forgotten? We were married, once.
‘A long time,’ he murmurs, before pulling back and looking at me with shining eyes. They begin to brim over now, tears turning to raindrops on his face. ‘A really long time. Oh, I love you. I love you so much.’
‘Why are you crying?’ I say, reaching up and dabbing at his cheek with my finger. If I’ve said something to upset him, I really didn’t mean to.
83.
Josh
November 2034
Sitting with Rachel at her house, I pick up a magazine. It’s one of those quaint titles about living well, filled with wholesome articles on baking and wild swimming and foraging for things to put in soups. I read to her about a woman who hand-illustrates cookbooks, in the hope that it might spark a sleeping synapse in her brain, deliver her some subconscious pleasure.
She can still read, if the mood takes her. But it so rarely does, these days. I know she’s starting to find language confusing, partly because the way she spells is becoming increasingly phonetic.
